My First Outing

National Coming Out Day is a weird day.  For some, it's a big day full of ceremonies and story-telling parties and blog posts *cough* and more.  For others, it's a day where they get to watch others feel good about themselves while continuing to hide.  Other people are uncomfortable with the concept of "coming out" as a singular occurrence.  And all of these things are valid and true at the same time.

For me, it's really a good but solemn day  It's the first NCOD I'm what you might call out.  And as I've said before, it's really inaccurate to talk about coming out as something that only happens once.  No real reason for me to go into that again.

So instead, I thought I'd have myself a proper coming out, since I sorta jumped the gun back in May.  How rude of me to come out when it wasn't NCOD!

Perhaps it would be more generous to say this is an update for those of you who care to know how I'm doing.  If you follow me on Twitter or Tumblr, you probably don't really need the information, you often get to see it happen in real time.  But, to hell with it, sometimes it's good to write something just for the sake of writing it.

So, first and foremost, I am transgender.  This is nothing new, or at least I would hope not by now.  I'm not overt about it, and I sure as hell don't present in any feminine way.  But I'm learning to be okay with that.  That will be changing in the near future anyways.

I've been on hormone replacement therapy for a little over three months now.  They're doing... something.  Some of it is probably a little TMI, but it can basically be summed up as "oh, hey there, puberty again!"  The difference is that the mood swings tend to have an effect on my depression and anxiety, so some days aren't pretty.  Some days it's hard to get out of bed.  Some days I come home and take a three hour nap.  One day I left work, came home, and slept almost 16 hours total.  I recently changed psych meds and hopefully that'll even me out.

I'm still working on my new (or perhaps "true" would be more accurate?) identity, which I imagine won't be terribly different from my old.  I'll need a new name.  I've always liked Amy, and my parents were going to name me Barbara, so I'm thinking Barbara Amelia Allen.  Has a nice ring to it.  I'm still getting used to she pronouns, especially when I go to support group meetings.  I still go by my old name and pronouns in my day to day life.  It's usually not a problem, but sometimes I get "sir"ed and it weirds me out a little, but in a good way.  Like, in my mind I'm more and more of a woman, so I imagine that I will probably update all that stuff sooner rather than later, even if it does mean I'll be opening myself up to a LOT of trouble.

I also came out in my blog post about my queer identity, which is pretty fluid at the moment.  I'm mostly interested in women, but I'm not totally opposed to men either, or anyone else anywhere on the spectrum and beyond.  Cuties are cuties no matter what.  More recently, though, I've also come to realize that I'm probably asexual.  It's been difficult to suss out because asexuality exists on a spectrum just like anything else.  I'm not completely grossed out by sex, but I don't think it's for me.  I like cuddles though, and stuff like that.  I'm still very much a romantic.  And that stuff may change.  I don't know, I've been single for a while.  The point, in the end, is that I'm queer as hell, and really pretty happy with that.  It's nice to have an identity and a label and a community to be a part of.

As I said, National Coming Out Day is a tricky holiday, and it means different things for different people.  The fact of the matter is that I am so incredibly lucky.  I have queer friends all over, and a very supportive family.  I can come out, and I see now that I need to keep coming out, because I can.  I can do so safely.  And other people can't come out safely until there are more of us visible.  I see it as my duty to be more and more open all the time, to change this world one little fragment at a time.

Happy Queer Christmas, everyone.  Enjoy your life and love, wherever you may find it.

Winter Child ~ Autumn Soul

Hiver

I was born in January
In the dead of winter
Among the dead trees
When the sun dies early
But the son was born early
Was I meant for another time
When it's warmer?
Perhaps

When you're born early, they worry
They put you in a box
They cover you in wires
And machines beep out signals
The pictures are pulled out years later
I'm told I'm an alien
By my siblings
(Or are they the humans that found me?)
And I believe it. How could I not?

After all, I am not a Winter child
One can see my birth certificate
Or my driver's license
It says it so plainly
My birth occurred in January
How can I twist reality like that?

Because I dream of crisp leaves
Red
   Orange
      Yellow
Crunch crunch crunch
I smell the pumpkin and fire
I know the air is crisp
Not bitter and frigid
Even though I have never known Autumn
I know my soul

Because I am an alien
Because I say so.

Printempts

But Autumn is distant
And I am weary as it is
The long dark of night
Has stolen my fire
Perhaps Spring will do
It is warm
And the flowers bloom
And the days are longer
And the sun is shining
And now I am in love
This should be my home
Where there is love and warmth
But it becomes too much
And I cannot breathe at night

So I must go to the doctor
No box this time, no wires
(But still I am an alien)
Instead, they jab me
A hundred, thousand, million points
Filled with all the things of the world
They jab me in the arm
Does it hurt?
Does it itch?
See here, the grass, the feline
They are the culprits
They make you itch
They stop the breathing

So I'm given magic pills
And I can breathe again
Except I can't, not really
This season is too perfect
Still waters and all that
Spring is the moment just before
The rollercoaster drops

/The barrel drops

/The hammer drops

And soon it will all go wrong

I cannot live in the calm before the storm
I could, I would, I should
It is warm, but not the right kind of warm
It is not crisp, and things rise from the ground
It rains water, but the leaves do not rain
Nothing is as it should be
Though it is very much like something
That is almost-but-not-quite

Ete

Spring was the oasis
But also the mirage
It is both at the same time
Because life is never so simple
And that means summer
Is the desert that follows
When schools are deserted
And yuppies jet off
To desert islands and Mai Tais
Everyone just loves summer
No more teachers no more books
Had me a blast
And the livin is easy

But
Eh...

I don't feel the hype
I'm too busy feeling everything
Feeling nothing
Feeling hot
Feeling sweaty
Feeling tired
Feeling sleepy
Feeling awake
Feeling angry
Feeling amused

It's the sun
It makes the son mad
It's not the heat
It's the humidity
But also the heat
And the UV radiation
Ginger skin inherited
That burns in seconds
But not the ginger hair
Hair's brown, not orange
Brown and orange like
Brown and orange leaves
That fall in a pile

No, still summer, still hot
Still learning, still a student
There's no school in summer
(No class, get it?)
But it's not actually summer
Because poetry is clever like that
Still a student, learning things
Learning about bad grades
Learning about gender
Learning about mental breakdowns
Learning about church bureaucracy
Learning about anxiety
Learning what it's like
To be told you're not good enough

And so you start to teach yourself
Even when your brain's not right
Even when you're mad
Even when you're furious (haha)
You teach yourself that maybe
Maybe god is dead
And maybe gender is fluid
And maybe people can be good
And maybe snow is alright sometimes
But it's still not for you
You're an Autumn kind of girl
(No, but you said son)
(I know what I said)

There's a way out
Out of summer
It just takes time, Little Alien

Automne

Away from the January birth
Away from the siren song of spring
Away from the madness of the sun
Accept Autumn into your heart
Not as your personal
LORD and SAVIOR

No, accept Autumn into your heart
And your head and your body
But how, the throng cries
You were born in January
You are Winter's, no matter what

But the process has already started
You are becoming Autumn
And you don't see things so
Seasonal
Black and white
You see in all the shades
Especially reds and oranges
and yellows and browns
You like those the best

And when you accept it
When you let it really change you
You learn the most important lesson
You will ever learn
You learn to shrug
Because maybe they're right
Maybe you're always Winter's Child
But maybe they're wrong
And it's not that hard

To my dismay, it's also not that easy
I'm ready to Autumn it up
Autumn like the day is long
(But days get shorter in fall so)
(Shut up, it's poetry)
But September is still hot
And I'm still mad
(But not furious)
(Shut up)

One day feels like a year
Is it really Autumn when it still feels like Summer?
I have to be patient
New magic pills that make me Autumn
Magic pills, but not that magic
Not magic enough to work
Overnight
But magic enough to make things
Right
Magic takes two years, I guess
Magic is a lot like real life

Soon there will be leaves
And pumpkin pie
And Halloween
And candy
And turkey
And sweaters

Soon there will be all this
And more
But I must be patient
It was seventy degrees today
That's less than ninety
But it's not there yet

I just have

To be

Patient

Orthodoxy and Murder Porn

I don't really get into arguments on the internet.  I'm not exactly the debate type, aided no doubt by my anxiety.  It's hard to say something intelligent when you're too busy having chest pains and trouble breathing.

But given the kinds of people I look up to these days, I knew that was bound to change sooner or later.

There have been plenty of things that I've done the occasional Twitter rant about, but today I actually posted a reply to a blog that got my dander up.  Progressive evangelical blogger Zach Hoag made a post about what a blessing the LGBT community can be to the church.

Now, I'm all about that subject.  I took an entire directed study in seminary on queer theology.  There are so many talented queers out there putting out some really great theology.  To sum it up would be difficult, obviously, but Patrick Cheng's Radical Love provides an excellent starting point, explaining that queer theology is about the eradication of barriers.

Seriously, read this shit.  It's great.

Zach Hoag's post was not this.  And worse, he had already blocked a number of fellow queers who dissented too much to what he had to say.  His opinions, flawed as they were, were going relatively unchallenged.

So, despite all common sense, I posted a reply.  He had no clue who I was, so I was able to try and explain why his ideas were so problematic.

To wit:

"There's a lot going on here that requires responding to, and I don't even really know where to begin, so I'm just going to launch into it with some general things.
First, for the love of all that is holy, please stop using LGBT when you're clearly just talking about gays, lesbians, and maybe if they're lucky enough, bisexual folks. This entire post is clearly focused on Christians who have a problem with homosexuality - hence the reference to ex-gay therapies and "civil gay marriage" (protip, just call it marriage, that's what we do). If you wanna be progressive, try actually progressing forward and point out where the church falls short (read: EVERYWHERE) when it comes to the transgender community. However, if your goal here is to discuss homosexuality, just come out with it. Don't use LGBT just because it seems like the thing you're supposed to do. The acronym has a meaning, and it represents more than just "the gays".
Second, with regards to the marriage thing, queers are NOT monolith when it comes to geddin' weddin'. Some want it, others don't, and some are all about polyamory. If you want to address the entire LGBT community's stance on mawwiage and twue wove, be prepared to say a lot, because there's a lot of opinions on it. Some are even adamantly against the entire institution. Yes, it's true, there are queers that actually DO want to destroy traditional marriage.
Finally, please do not confuse the actual pain and suffering of the queer community (note: often at the hands of Christians from all walks, even those who mean well) with the idolized, idealized, perfected "weeping" that we imagine today. Queer people are actually being traumatized, abused, brutalized, killed and more, really, in real life, in reality, right now. And that existence is not so that Christians can take our hands and hold us close and tell us that God has a plan for our pains. We will not be your murder porn.
There is no third way, there is every way. Queer people exist. Accept us, deny us, ignore us, hurt us, murder us, none of it matters. We're here.
I'll agree with you on one point, though. This is not a matter of opinion."

To my surprise, he actually replied!

"Agree that the second point about marriage pertains primarily to gay people, and i tried to differentiate. But I apologize for the confusion. Points 1 & 3 are each applicable to the LGBT people in general, imo, but I understand if you disagree. Another thing: my focus here is on confessing LGBT Christians specfically, and I probably should have added something like "orthodox" LGBT Christians just to be even more clear. Yes, I'm in a progressive Christian category, but I consider myself an orthodox Christian, and an evangelical. I think those things can go together (though, again, it's fine if you disagree).
Finally, your read of my third point as "murder porn" is, of course, outrageous. But outrage is likely what brought you to this post."

At time of writing, those two posts are still visible on the blog, so he at least had the decency to not delete our (admittedly brief) interaction.

Okay, I thought, conversation not over.  Rad.  So I got to work on a new post.  It took me a little while to write, and when I hit "post," I saw a message flash up telling me I'd been blocked and that my post wouldn't be going through.

Ah, well then.

Here we have the siren call of the privileged, one I had until this point been lucky enough not to be a part of.  "You're being mean to me, so what you have to say isn't valid.  Come back when you're ready to be civil."  As if we should be grateful for the scraps.  As if anger is only justified when Jesus is chasing moneychangers out of the Temple.  As if talking about queer issues is more important than listening to actual queer people.

I can't directly respond on his blog.  But I can damn sure respond on my own blog.

So let's get the big gripe out of the way - no, just because you string a series of letters together doesn't suddenly mean you're talking about all queer people.  That blog is most definitely referencing a majority of gay Christians.  The blessings that trans and non-binary Christians could bring have so much more to do with the way churches treat gender.  I don't imagine I'm the only one who experienced major gender segregation growing up in the church.  Men and women are implicitly and explicitly made out to be separate creatures.  Discussions are sometimes divided into teen boys and girls because they couldn't possibly understand one another.  Purity culture is completely focused on the "differences between genders".  And, for the sake of repetition, if your main argument is that we also want monogomous marriage, you're completely missing the point.  It shows a total lack of understanding for queer folk.

Next, orthodoxy.  Orthodoxy is an awful word, and I'm not sure I know many queer Christians who would identify with it.  I'd hate to make a blanket statement beyond that.  Nonetheless, I can say safely that the dedication to this imaginary "orthodoxy" is exactly why the church at large has such a problem bringing LGBTQ Christians back into the fold in the first place.  After all, who likes calling for orthodoxy more than the same people who put "1 Man + 1 Woman = Traditional Marriage" bumper stickers on their cars.

But most importantly, I'm going to go ahead and defend my analogy, because I was frankly proud of that one.  This desire to make queer folks out to be pathetic sufferers who can bring beauty into the world through their transformed pain is not unlike someone who talks about how meaningful it is to have a disabled person in their life to teach them how to be humble (sometimes snarkily known as inspiration porn).

However, in this case, I went with "murder porn" specifically because the lives of queer people are actually at stake.  There are those of us who have been abused, beaten, bruised, broken, and killed - often in the name of maintaining the status quo that also pervades Christianity.  And I can't help but get a squicky feeling at the idea of people putting up their pictures and praying over them and feeling all self-righteous about it, the same way I would if I found out someone jacked it to Saw or Hostel (or perhaps more accurately, real life snuff films).  It's gratification at the expense of real pain.  Nothing wrong with a little kink, but there's a difference between sadism and sociopathy.

So yes, my analogy was outrageous, quite on purpose mind you.  And yeah, I'm outraged.  I'm outraged that actual people are victimized because you need a new way to feel good about yourself.  I'm outraged that you silenced real queer people so that you could take another hit of that sweet, sweet congratulatory cis-het applause.  

You're fucking right I'm outraged, and I'm not going to let us be silenced.

Try and stop me.

Coming Out(s)

I.

I'm a little kid watching Ace Ventura: Pet Detective and laughing at the silly man with the weird face running around and talking out of his ass.  It's a fun movie, relatively harmless.  Towards the end, it's revealed that the male perp they're looking for is actually the female police lieutenant Einhorn.  The entire squad, all of whom have been in some way seduced by her, proceed to become violently ill.  I can see in an instant what I am, and what I should never be.  In a single moment, I come out to myself and immediately shut the closet door in my own face.

II.

I'm in a psychology course and we're studying abnormal psychology.  I find a term that makes me stop in my tracks.  Transvestism, I read, is the desire or habit to dress or act in a manner traditionally befitting another gender.  So there I am, reading about myself in a textbook, in a section about mentally unhealthy people.  I have an identity, and it feels ugly.

III.

I'm writing a blog post in which I explain the nature of coming out while simultaneously coming out to everyone on Facebook.  If I look out of the corner of my eye, I swear I can see infinity.  I can see where I've been, what could have happened, what might still be.

Two years from now I'm happy and healthy and whole.  One year from now, I'm dying in a gutter because someone thinks I'm trying to trick them.  Three years from now, I'm still trying to get on HRT.  Eight years ago, I go hunting all over Google and recognize my identity in time to have a revelation before I've even finished college.  Seventeen years ago I stop Ace Ventura halfway through to go get ice cream with the family, and I still don't know how it ends.

IV.

I come home from work early because I'm worn out by my anxiety.  I curl up in my bed with the lights off and proceed to read the entire e-book of Parker Marie Molloy's coming out story on my phone.  I weep openly and realize that my coming out is about to happen far, far faster than I ever realized.  I know I can't wait much longer.

V.

It's my first time at a trans support group meeting, and despite my reservations, it's going well enough.  I get the name of some local doctors who can probably help me get hormone treatment.  The room is comprised of plenty of trans women of all stripes, a few genderqueer folks, even a trans man who is far more dashing than I would have ever been able to pull off.  Some seem cool, like the trans lesbian couple who kinda remind me of Daria and Jane.  Others I can't stand.  One I'm even kind of crushing on.  But most importantly, the normality of it all comes crashing down on my head and I feel a little more whole.  The last half-hour was designated for "social time" and I leave because my anxiety is downright crippling and I forgot to take my meds that day.

VI.

I hit send on the Facebook messenger program and close my laptop.  I drink some more white wine and eat a few more Hershey's kisses.  There's no going back now, my family knows what I've only just been able to surmise after two decades.  I am trans, and I can only hope they have my back.  Of course, all my worrying was for nothing.  Message after message comes back my way, filled with the love of people who are willing even if they are unprepared.  It's enough.

VII.

I'm taking a class on queer theology with a group of fellow students and friends, in my dean's apartment.  We're drinking wine and eating cheese and crackers and discussing the book on trans theology.  I want to speak up, say more, contribute, tell my life's story.  I want to help them understand this text better.  But I'm not out to a lot of people yet, and it feels weird outing myself just to say something poignant.  I pull my hand away from the knob and wait for another day, a better moment.

VIII.

I'm reading a random webcomic I've found, and I finish the thing in a single setting, fighting back tears.  I know now, truly, that my sexuality is not so easily definable.  I know that if the right person were to come along, it wouldn't matter to me who they were or what they "had".

I'm queer.  It feels good to know.  It's not a mental illness or something you see in a psych textbook.  It's a way of being, of living.

IX.

A friend I've made online informs me that I just might have Gender Dysphoria, which she just so happens to be writing a paper on.  Another term, another identity, another psychological issue.  I never bother to read the paper, and it's not long before we stop communicating for stupid reasons.  Regardless, I adopt the new term, and come out publicly for the first time a few months later.  It's an awkward and ungraceful event, and it isn't long before I regret not better understanding myself.

X.

Just before I've giving up on Thought Catalog entirely, I'm reading an article by someone I've never heard of.  It hits home on a lot of levels, but the most potent line was not the punchline by any means.  She says

~These inaccurate depictions set such a high bar that some women, despite thinking about it every day, will put off transitioning for years while allowing testosterone to ravage their bodies just because they aren’t sure that transition is a “need” for them rather than a “want.”~

The line blows me away, because I've never thought about it before - that testosterone could be considered a poison for someone like me.  There is something wrong with me, but in a way I'd never before imagined.  This is healthy.  This is understanding I've never known before.

XI.

Despite being in leadership for two separate LGBTQ groups at BU, I'm not really out.  I keep thinking I should be more blatant about it, but what happens when I say I think I might be trans?  What if someone calls me out, questions my reality?  It was too stressful, and I kept quiet, clearly an ally but otherwise mysterious in my support.  I would rather have been mysterious than risk such anxiety.

XII.

A trio of amusing new characters have been added to the webcomic Questionable Content.  During a party, one of them, the adorable redheaded nerd Claire, approaches major character Marten and comes out to him as trans.  Immediately she earns her place in my heart as my favorite character.  It's the exact opposite of my childhood. I may not have a role model, but I do have a positive character I could point to and say "that there is a human being". It's something.

+++++

Despite the usual imagery, coming out of the closet isn't always a one-time deal.  Sometimes it's clean and comforting, other times it's messy and upsetting.  Sometimes it doesn't even happen at all.  It happens so many times the memories get scattered across your mind in a kaleidoscope of beauty and horror.

You can come out to yourself, to your family, to your friends, to other queer folk, and each time may require a different approach.

Sometimes I worry that maybe I'm not "trans enough," that I'm somehow appropriating a label that doesn't apply to me until some time in the future when I've gone through enough HRT or had the right surgeries.  I'm still figuring a lot of stuff out, following folks on Twitter, and reading all kinds of articles and conversations and debates.  But at least there are things like this to make figuring it out a little easier.

So, I'm trans, and queer, and still particularly confused about a lot.

And I suppose I'm never not coming out.

Your Own Personal Jesus: How I Learned to Stop Praying & Love Doubt

Been outta the blogging game a little bit, so let's pick it back up!  Luckily, I've had something in the works, which is to say my brain.  The truth is, I probably could have written this some time ago, but I've been a little bit scared to, frankly.  In this post, I intend to tackle my disbelief in a bit more detail, specifically my difficulties with Jesus and my frustrations with his celebrity status.

Not... exactly what I meant.

First, we have to get the most prominent factor out of the way.  I am a goddamn hipster.  I wear thick-rimmed glasses and a lot of button-up shirts and I prefer bands you've never heard of and microbrews and everything.  I'm not the most hipstery hipster out there.  I don't have an old-school bike and I haven't listened to anything on vinyl since I was a widdle baby.  But I'm pretty hipster.

And there's something sort of weird about the way Jesus gets presented in different churches.  For some, he's your pretty average blonde-haired, blue-eyed savior, like you've seen a thousand times.  But a lot of folks tend to mold Jesus to be whatever it is they need him to be in order to make him relatable or palatable, depending on your outlook.  So African-American churches might have a black Jesus, hippies prefer the peace-and-love Jesus, and megachurches like Jesus more rebellious and cool, preferably with whatever the Galilean equivalent of sunglasses and a motorcycle might be.

Rather often, particularly while I was in youth group, it was that rad Jesus that was pushed on us most.  Well, sort-of-rad, anyways.  Respectably rad.  After all, you can't really preach modesty if your Jesus is so cool he'd have groupies.  So he was the Rebel With a Cause (get your t-shirt at Heaven & Earth now!), who only turned over tables because he was justifiably angry, who thinks taxes are still groovy, who had an attitude but only towards bad people.

And let me tell you, if there's one thing people like me hate, it's someone who's cool.  I didn't want the cool Jesus, because that meant Jesus was just like all the jackasses at school I wasn't particularly fond of.  So I tended to always internally get really weirded out whenever we started doing worship songs about wanting the touch of Jesus or whatever (problematic since I was in the praise band) and sermons about doing something/not doing something to keep Jesus happy/not make Jesus sad were a tad ineffectual at times because I didn't really care much about what Jesus thought.  Besides, he loved me either way, so that was a moot point!

Now, God, I understood.  God was the big floating whatever in the sky who saw everything and knew everything and could do everything.  And the Holy Spirit was this actually cool sentient wind that gave you inspiration and made you feel all tingly and whatever.  But something about the nepotism never sat right with me.

Some time away from church in college helped dull my outlook a bit, but you never really totally lose that initial understanding you get growing up in church.  But now I was becoming quite the little pop culture junkie, and it was getting difficult to ignore the celebrity of Jesus H. Christ.  Again, the other two thirds of the Trinity seemed to be getting the raw deal, doing all the hard work behind the scenes (I mean literally unseen), and what did Jesus have to do, thirty three years of admittedly tough work and then he gets to just sit at the Right Hand of God the Father Almighty Creator of Heaven and Earth Etc., wearing his cool shades and drinking some obscure cocktail from his replica Holy Grail and chatting up all the sexy angels or whatever.

I was in college, sue me.

Even though my perception was admittedly warped, I still adamantly argue that the celebrity of Jesus is undeniable.  The two biggest church holidays are all about him.  Almost all prayers are directed at him.  He's the savior, he's lord, he's King of Kings.  There is a church in my hometown that is literally called The Church of Jesus.  Am I the only one that thinks that sounds just a teensy tiny tad like a cult?  And when someone name-drops Jesus like twenty times in a row when they're praying?  This is all I hear...

"HELP ME TOM CRUISE"

Again, I will admit wholeheartedly that some of this stems from the fact that I grew a sort of theological crush on the Holy Spirit because it just gets no love whatsoever while JC hogs the spotlight.  I was a serious spiritual hipster, and I can't deny it for a second.

But I continue to think that there's something noteworthy in the way I was so quick to dispatch of my faith in Jesus.  The signs were there, right up til the end, one of my last papers before the big UMC drop was all about Doubting Thomas.  It all has to add up to something, right?  Am I crazy for thinking that maybe Jesus never wanted to be a celebrity?  That really was a big breaking point for me, the reason I jumped over and joined the local UU fellowship, because I couldn't deal with Jesus-talk anymore.  It was bad enough calling Jesus King anymore, but really I wanted nothing more to do with him.

To wit, I want to stare long and hard at the moon, not the finger that points.  I don't care about the finger, and sometimes I felt so guilty for not caring about the finger, so I pretended to care about the finger.  But the more I did, the more ridiculous I felt when all that time there was a big moon just glowing away in the sky.  Maybe it's made of cheese or maybe that shape really is a man's face.  We'll never find out because we're too busy putting little googly eyes and a paper crown on the pointing finger.

Pictured:  Jesus...?

Now don't get me wrong.  I would hate to think I'm sounding super judgmental right now.  Jesus is the main jam for a lot of folks.  Some of my best friends are Christians, and good for them!  They've found what they need.  For a long time, I was made to believe that was what I needed, and I went with it for a while before realizing I didn't have to follow that path.  I'll be doing my own thing from now on, but that's just it, it's my own thing.  All I ever wanna see is others doing their own thing.  And if that involves celebrity Jesus, that's great. 

I just worry about the effect this is having on Christianity.  There's no one singular reason that churches are having an attendance problem, and it'd be foolish to blame it on one thing anyways.  Rather, I'd just like to maybe add something to the list.  Give Jesus a break.  He was only supposed to work a thirty three year shift, and somehow he ended up getting talked into working the late shift for another couple... millennia.  Maybe let the dude go get some coffee?  I think he's probably earned it.

I'm Intolerant of Tolerance

I would be lying if I said that there was a tiny part of me that didn't want to write this simply because I get to use "literally" properly, if a bit hyperbolically.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Words have meaning.  This is probably something we should agree on before we continue.  Then again, if this is a point of derision for us, I don't know what you're doing here.  The world in general, that is, not just my blog.  That is literally what language is, and if you've got another definition... no, wait, that... I think... Yeah, do-over...  Too much words for my brain-mind.

Ah, sweet relief...

Words have meaning.  They imply objects, actions, descriptions, all that stuff you learned in middle school and forgot in high school.  But as our ideas get more complex, so our words get more complex too.  Take your pick: equality, freedom, liberty, rights - you could right entire essays using just those terms as your jumping-off point.  And, indeed, those particular words also make another point, which is to say that words inevitably become politicized, despite (or perhaps because of) our best intentions.  Again: marriage, guns, life...  You could do this all day.

And with politicization comes polarization.  No matter where one falls on the political spectrum (cartesian plane? multi-dimensional polyhedron? how complex are we these days?), those words carry some general meanings, but also some more specific ones as well.  Marriage and equality are practically linked in the public discourse these days.  But they're also linked to other words, depending on what "side" you're on.  Do you think "love, cherish, honor" or "Bible, abomination, sin" or some combination thereof?  Is it Paul or HRC that flashes across the blackboard in your mind?

Now there are some who would argue that "tolerance" is kind of a dirty word.  I do not generally sit with them on that particular side of the fence.  Or operate in those spheres.  Or whatever it's called when we remember the world isn't black and white...  However, I find myself agreeing with them on this point, but for entirely different reasons.

I'm gonna make like a shitty paper-writer for a second here and go back to the definition of the word.  However, as someone with a master's degree, I feel I should at least be a little bit more appropriate and look up "tolerate" on etymonline.com along with dictionary.com.  Surprising no one, tolerate means pretty much what you'd expect it to mean.  It's allowing something to exist without interference, probably something you're not generally fond of in the first place.

Attempting to continue this discussion in broad terms is gonna become difficult, so let me try my best to address a particular conversation in moderately nuanced terms.  Needless to say, this links back to the discussion around gay marriage.  For those spheres in which I do operate, "tolerance" is a kind of totem.  It is an attempt to wrap up in a single word the concept of letting bygones be bygones.  Whether you are morally or politically opposed to the idea of a same-sex marriage, or are simply weirded out by gay sex, whatever your reasons, the request is that you let it go in the name of peace.

Hence, those who are opposed to marriage equality tend to find tolerance to be a tool of those who support it.  There are the occasional battles where someone tries to reclaim the word, to show how those seeking to allow same-sex marriage are actually being intolerant, and it doesn't go over super well.  But for the most part, that word's current usage is set for a while.

Still, there's a part of me that, as I said, kind of agrees with those with whom I disagree.

Wait, let me try again...  See, words have meaning...

Tolerance really should be a dirty word.  Or, at the very least, we should be working on removing it from our vocabulary.

At this point, I can probably return back to a slightly more nebulous discussion, because the same thing remains true across the board.  With the occasional exception, no one ever wants to be "tolerated".  That's the bottom rung of civilization when you get down to it.  That means that someone, no matter how they feel about you, has deigned to allow your existence to register.  They don't have to speak to you, hell, they don't even have to be nice to you.  Tolerance is someone telling you they're "colorblind."  Tolerance is "I have a gay friend."

Tolerance cannot possibly lead to cooperation or peace.  I doubt it will even lead to acceptance (which, come to think of it, only sounds like it'd be about a rung up the ladder anyways).  From what we've seen, tolerance has really earned more ire than it has appreciation.  I mean, shit, attempting to gain tolerance seems to have led to intolerance, and at this stage that actually has its benefits (the devil you know and all that).

Obviously, our eyes should always be on the greatest good we can achieve.  We should want peace and love, whatever that might mean.  We should want to form a greater society, and we should want cooperation and a will to work together.  We should be hoping for good things, or at least an end to bad things.

Because, honestly, tolerance is literally the least you can do.  And it damn well shouldn't be on our goalposts.

Healing Factor

There's a phrase I've been noticing a lot more lately.  I have no doubt that it has in fact existed with roughly the same frequency since my childhood and that it is my awareness that has changed.  It's a seemingly innocuous phrase, one that shows up a million times in real life, television, movies, books, and beyond.  It generally follows an exchange in which person A gets frustrated because of something person B said while attempting to be humorous.  At which point, person B utters the accursed thing, dribbling like bile from their lips, pooling about their feet, a pile of ichor that I am forced to drink down.  Each sip makes me want more and more to rage, and it's getting harder to ignore.  I apologize to those of you who came here to read something and were forced, in the process of reading, to see this.

"It's just a joke."

Pardon my French...

There are variants - usually involving one's level of seriousness or something - but that right there is the core of it.  This is a phrase brought out when someone has just been informed that their attempt at being funny backfired because they tried to use an offensive subject matter.  It is a sorry-not-sorry.  It is a silencing technique, the unspoken threat being that people don't have a right to be offended if comedy and laughter were the intended result.

There are a lot of reasons why it's a problematic phrase, and with my focus for this time around, I can't do justice to all of them.  So, por ejemplo, check out this blog post for some extra helpful information.  Or, hey, do some Googling.  There's all kinds of stuff out there, and it's the only reason I see stuff more now.  It's what the Internet is for.

If you're feeling a little too-long-didn't-read about that link, then fine, allow me to do my best.  Just because your joke is ironic or, indeed, a joke does not remove the offense.  When you say something racist, it's just racist, no matter the coating.  If you make a women-kitchen-sandwich-laundry joke, you're still in the danger zone.  And yes, copy-pasting that joke about Justin Bieber going to lady-jail  is kinda transphobic, even if your gay friend posted it because, hey, anyone can be transphobic.

Not... quite what I meant, Rosie.

Now, I say all that to say this.  Everyone is not a comedian.  You are most likely not paid to be a funny person.  Comedians are comedians.  That is an important distinction to make before we move forward, and while obvious, I feel it's paramount.  Because it damn sure feels like a lot of people are trying to make the axiom true regardless of its impossibility.  Some people simply do not have a talent for humor.  And yet, everyone wants to make jokes.  Hell, I went to seminary, a school for training religious leaders, and the amount of funny people I met was pretty much standard for anywhere else ever.  People like to be funny.

But I'm starting to get paranoid that it's getting out of hand.  Did seriousness become a crime?  It's something I've been aware of for a while now.  In classes and rehearsals and just hanging out, it seems as though trying to enjoy anything in a purely serious way is verboten.  Movies, music, performance, whatever - the minute you try to lose levity, you become an insufferable wanker who can't take a joke.

Don't get me wrong, I love to laugh.  I love stand-up and irreverant comedies and blue humor and stupid YouTube videos, the whole lot.  I am not by any means a humorless dullard.  And indeed I think I took to these things more when it started to become clear to me that my contemplative, meditative side was not so welcome out in the open.  I learned to be funnier, to quip faster, all that, and for the most part I think that served me pretty well.

Things came to a head, as is the pattern, over the last year or so.  I had become particularly taken with a blog called Stuff Christian Culture Likes.  It was a shockingly accurate portrayal of all the things that are seemingly universal in Christendom, and it had an irrevernace that I was drawn to.  I also started to follow the Facebook group, joining in on conversations, mocking Mark Driscoll, wondering about the ethics of tithing booths, and more.  It was great, for a time.

Then things went... weird.  I started to become more aware of the way the community operated.  If a tweet was posted, there was a decent chance that person would find out pretty soon.  Same for comment sections in blog posts.  The person who runs the site and group, Stephanie Drury, has been accused of being a sort of queen bee with drones, and while that's a harsh statement, the imagery of swarming does have a sort of relevance.  And then there was an event that spiraled so out-of-control so fast I don't even know how to properly catalogue it anymore.  A trans person said something against SCCL and became the latest target to end up in their sights, getting misgendered amongst other things.  It got uglier as the day wore on, and merely watching the sparks fly on Twitter wore me out.  I was now aware of the dark side of things, and the group was never as exciting for me again.

I knew that those who frequented SCCL tended to do so out of a shared experience of religious abuse, and that humor was their way of dealing with it.  It was their place to go and heal, to point at evangelism and conservativism and say "how silly" in order to help themselves reach a better place.  I am so behind that, 100%.

No proper caption, just wanted to post this.  Feel free to make your own!

But there are times when humor gets out of hand, when it comes at the expense of someone who already experiences some measure of oppression or depression or anxiety on a daily basis.  And that little "it's just a joke" becomes a dark thing, a haunted thing that reveals a lack of empathy.  Humor is a beautiful thing, but it is not the only thing.  We have been clinging to it so desperately that we have allowed it to become mishapen and monstrous, to become a weapon instead of a gift.  And when its darker side is pointed out, we only hug it all the closer and scream "no, it's just a joke" because we can't bear to think that we might lose our humor.  It's as if it's all we have left.

And it most certainly is not.  It took me so long to finally admit, but it's not the only thing.  And for me, it's not even my favorite thing.  It's not what heals me.  It may be for others, and they should consider themselves blessed, because laughter is a holy and sacred thing.

But that's not me.  I like meditation and sadness and weirdness and a wealth of other things.  Just last week, I was raving about the game Spec Ops: The Line.  It's basically a horror game, except the monster is man, and by extension, you.  Halfway through the game, you do A Very Bad Thing, and then at the end, you get yelled at for doing it and for not putting the controller down and walking away.  I like texts that force me to think, that push me outside of the box and then leave me hanging.  I love movies that start nowhere and go nowhere.  Those are the things I need, that I breathe and live by, and the sooner I realized that, the easier it was to realize that I didn't need shock humor and rape jokes, and the sooner I was able to find my center.

By leaving behind the idea that laughter is the be-all-end-all, I was able to live a little bit fuller.  So, I dunno, maybe give that a try next time someone calls you out on your offensive joke instead of defending it?

Just a thought.

Billiam Vs. The Infinite Sadness

When I was in college, one of the special events I actually attended was going to see the "Real Life Hitch," Dating Doctor David Coleman.  It should be noted that it's a weird experience because the man is more Kevin James than Will Smith.

Pictured:  Not Agent J

Pictured:  Not Hancock

Pictured:  Not The Fresh Prince

Pictured: I Could Do This All Day

And in retrospect, a lot of it was mostly heternonormative commonsense knowledge and little factoids than anything earth-shattering - though, confession, at the time I thought it was.  But the one interesting nugget, that has always stuck with me, works thusly:

1.  Pick your favorite animal.  It can be whatever you want, no matter how silly.

2.  Give that animal three characteristics that you think define it or that explain why you like it.

3.  Those three characteristics are actually factors of your personality, specifically the part of you that you think everyone sees you as.

They don't necessarily define you, rather they define your reflected self-image.

To wit, my answer:  The Majestic Raccoon, who, as we all know, is masked, scruffy, and adorable.  i.e. I was certain that everyone thought of me as this cute if unkempt critter that was always hiding its face by default.  It was a fairly accurate result.

Pictured:  Me...?

I bring this up because I wanted to address something from my previous post in greater detail, and I figure it was an easier lead-in than "Hey, depression sucks because it completely wrecks your brain."  Whoops, there goes that idea!

So yes, that's the particularly shitty thing about suffering from depression or some similar condition.  It's different for everyone, and for me it manifested in a kind of internal social anxiety.  This was something I finally started combat somewhere around college when I realized that people actually seemed to take to me pretty well.  Not that I ever really believed them mind you.

That's where the raccoon imagery comes in, see.  I was sure that in reality I was just this adorably broken little thing that people just took pity on, even though it was oh-so-clear I was wearing a mask - a mask so familiar it had become a part of me.  Even in later years when I began to understand that I was being unreal about my perspective, there was a significant difference between what I told my brain and what my brain told me.  I could have had signed and dated confessions from every single one of my friends that they truly did appreciate me and I still wouldn't have believed it.

I was The Majestic Raccoon, all hail my pitiable scruffiness.

Praise me!  PRAISE ME!

Because I can't remember what I had for breakfast yesterday (probably a donut-ham-hamburger or something), but I sure as hell remember that time in high school I didn't get invited to a party that I wouldn't have gone to in the first place.

Because I never believed my girlfriends when they said they loved me.  I thought they tolerated me, at best.

Because no matter how many times someone couldn't understand why I'm single, I already knew that it was because I find it impossible to believe someone would go out with me, and I cling to my crushes like a life raft rather than get decimated again.

Because even when I was at my lowest, I refused to admit defeat and ask for help, because who would legitimately show me the same grace of a listening ear and an understanding shoulder like I had done for them?

Because why would I go to that party when there are Cracked articles to be read alone in my room while chiefing on a hookah for three hours?

Because when I was told that my friends and my dean of students toasted me last year, mourning my absence, I couldn't even fathom this happening.  I was sure it was some kind of fever dream I'd invented for myself, no matter how many times I stared at the Facebook post.

Because I was a damn good director in college, but my actor's appreciative praise fell on deaf ears sometimes.

Because any time I got cocky, it was almost always an act.

Because I am my worst enemy.

Truly, Lit was the voice of a generation.  Of raccoons.

I didn't have an angel or a devil on my shoulders.  Just a little ragged, water-logged raccoon constantly telling me that I was shit.

Pictured:  A Terrible Analogy

Now, backing up a bit, this was far from the only manifestation of my depression.  There was the deadening of emotions.  There was the inability to get out of bed some days.  There were the dropping grades and the inability to care.  But I think this was ultimately the source of it all.  And it's different for everyone.  See, for instance, Hyperbole and a Half's Adventures in Depression Parts 1 & 2.  Some of those stories stick with me, some of them aren't me at all.

And those little pills I mentioned last time?  They help, but they're not everything.  You don't just suddenly wake up a new person.  They're not magic.  And don't believe the television or the movies (which is really great advice for pretty much everything).  Those little fuckers took WEEKS to work.  Agonizing weeks wondering if maybe I was on the wrong medication.  It was a slow and steady climb, and I had to do a lot of mental exercises to help them along.  And each day was combat session, and I roll a lot of 1's on that d20 (whaddup nerds).  I had to beat back that soaked raccoon with a hefty piece of wood I grabbed off the ground with bloody hands.

Pictured:  There's some stuff I absolutely WILL NOT Google.

As is my MO much of the time, there's not really a good dismount for this.  It's not over.  I still have really bad days where I pretty much leave work and don't do a damn thing for the rest of the day.  I doubt myself, a LOT.  I second guess everything.

So I guess that's your takeaway, so to speak.  There are no magical cure-alls.  There's just life, and what you do with it.  Like that schmaltzy saying goes:  Everyone you meet is fighting a battle, so don't hesitate to jump into the fray with your +3 dwarven axe.

Did I quote that right?

Reasons I'm Not Staying

This is, I suppose, a post a long time coming, and also a long time in the making.  So when better to put it up than on New Years day?

In telling a tale that manages to somehow be episodic, ongoing, and yet coming to a close, I have no clue how to go about doing this.  But I'll give it my all.  In honor of the time of year, I suppose an anniversary is the best place to begin.

It was just about a year ago, on January 3rd, that I had my now-seemingly-mythical meeting with my District Committee on Ordained Ministry (DCOM) in order to see if I was fit for continuing forward in the ordination process.  Had things gone well, I would have become a "certified candidate" well on my way to someday becoming a pastor in the United Methodist Church.  That was The Plan.  That was the way things were going to go.  Hell, as far as I was concerned, that was the way God intended things to go.  Needless to say, things didn't go well.  I see at least two reasons for this.

Reason 1 - The Psychological Profile

This particular DCOM meeting was, in effect, a kind of high-impact job interview crossed with a job performance meeting, except the entire thing was set in potential tenses and things that haven't happened yet.  So the process is based instead on what ministerial experience you do have (another problem since I was working as a ministry associate at BU's Marsh Chapel, which was amazing but apparently not adequate...), and of course, the psychological profile.  Someone such as myself who is, let's put it kindly, crap at networking has pretty much no contact ever with the people that form the DCOM, so this was my only chance to let them know who I am.

Herein lies the problem.  I took the actual profile tests during a Not Very Good semester about a year before, during a particularly stressful time.  Three words:  Pastoral Care & Counseling.  So everything bad was damn near magnified in the results.  I finally received them at a review session during the summer.  If I may, a few choice lines, just to show how crazy-intense the language choices were...

"The candidate is overwhelmed by anxiety, tension, and depression"
"[He believes] that life is hopeless and that few things will work out right"
"uncomfortable in relationships with women and insecure in male oriented [roles]"
"poor memory, concentration problems and an inability to make decisions"

That's just the first page.  Of three.  As far as the testing folks were concerned, ministry behind a pulpit was not for me, absolutely, completely, 100%.

So that's what I was going in with.

Reason 2 - The Crying Game

There's a thing about me that I'm still super-duper self-conscious about.  I cry at weird, inappropriate, and unhelpful times.  Saving Big Fish and a little bit during Frozen recently (Seven words:  Do you want to build a snowman?), I don't cry at movies.  I don't cry during songs or musicals.  I might get a tad choked up during sad ceremonies.

But I stress-cry sometimes.  It's especially bad in socially stressful situation.  Put me in a cramped room with between 1 and 15 people whom are in some way "up the ladder" from me, add a pinch or two of stress, and I'm liable to break down in tears.  It sucks, a lot.  When I got in a bad car accident a few years ago, I cried when I called dad to come help take care of things.  When I screwed up big time at my Busch Gardens job and they had to have a meeting with multiple people to sort things out, I cried in front of all of them.  When I had a meeting with Doctor Darr to discuss one of my first big bad grades in theology school, I cried right then and there in her office.

So you can imagine, to some degree, what was bound to happen when I had a super important meeting with nine people in lay and ministry positions who were to determine my future, and they had in their hands that absolutely atrocious psychological profile.  I held it together okay for a while, until we started talking about my passions in ministry.  And I started talking about how I really cared about those left behind by the church.  I told painful stories about people's responses to queerness and disability in the church, and I started to cry.
I try to be a 21st century progressive person about it.  I know it's not shameful, it's a purely biological response my body has decided on to deal with stress.  But shame knows no logic.  It happened to me a lot when I was a kid too, so I spent years getting really good at being stoic.  But everyone knows how well bottling up works.  So every time, I absolutely hate myself for these little break-downs.  Which means when it happens in situations like this, there's this lovely little shame spiral of tearing up, hating myself, tearing up more, hating myself more, rinse, repeat.

So.

I had already run one gauntlet of questions about my profile, and then we ran through another gauntlet after that little session, so I was particularly shaken by the end of it.  But I did my best to remain positive.  Every time someone asked about the meeting, I'd say "Yeah, not great, but I think it's gonna be okay" or something similar.  Again, I learned to be stoic.  Show no fear.  Grin and bear it.  Et cetera.

It took only two days for them to tell me that I had been dropped from the ordination process.  It took a few more days before I dropped the news on everyone else.  I had to process it myself first, I had to get myself in a headspace where I could share the information.  I had to prepare myself for the stares of confusion and disappointment, and perhaps the worst, the frustration of nothingness.  What else could you really say or do?  But as I said in my other post, I had more school and a graduation and an internship to think about.  I would deal with it in due time.

+++++

That was all just lead-up.  Hopefully it wasn't a chore to read, because that's just the prologue.  Most of that is familiar information.  The purpose of this post is to finally have the courage to admit the rest of the story, such as it is, so far.

So up-front, I went through my period of disbelief, almost refusing to believe I could really be let go so easily.  Then, there was the time of hopefulness, where I knew I would get things figured out somehow.

The next big one was Doubt.

I'm not referring here to the doubt of my calling so much as the sudden realization that I was now free to believe anything at all.  I was tied to no dogma except that which my heart and mind found to be good and true.  And that was perhaps the most exciting, terrifying, earth-shattering part of this whole thing.  Even moreso just how quickly some things left me.

Jesus was the first to go.  I hesitate to put something so seemingly big in such a lighthearted manner, but I really think it does come down to just how much of a hipster I am.  Even in the most earnest and well-meaning settings, I became confounded and even frustrated with Christocentrism.  I hated prayers that were addressed solely to Jesus.  In many ways, I saw him as a celebrity that nobody would just shut up about, and I almost hated him for it.  I allowed myself, perhaps for the first time ever, to truly understand real doubt.  Not to merely humor an idea, but to believe it.  To believe that Jesus wasn't who he said he was.  I stopped taking Communion most days, except when I was leading Sunday mornings at Marsh Chapel.  I generally stayed silent during the Lord's Prayer.

Next, I suppose it was God who went.  Was God One?  Was God Only?  Was God anything at all?  Or was god a figment?  I repeat, these were not little philosophical games I played with myself.  I wasn't dipping my toe in the water, I was throwing caution to the wind.  Perhaps I was actually an agnostic.

The real shocker, true to form, was when the Holy Spirit went, or perhaps more aptly the concept of the spirit and soul at all.  I was burning it all down to the ground until nothing was left but ashes, from which I could build whatever I damn well felt like.

And while it was kind of exhillarating and freeing, I should reiterate that I was in my final semester at theology school and interning at Boston University's own chapel.  We talked of plans for future ministry and where God was in our lives and I was in not one but two different preaching courses.  Bearing the load of extreme doubt in the midst of all that was, ironically, turning me into the very person that my psych profile said I was.  Anyone paying attention during my This I Believe presentation, actually reading between the lines and seeing past the jokes will see just how scattered I was.

Summer only made it worse.  When I was at school, I was busy, even if it was with something I was no longer sure I even wanted or believed in.  Being home and jobless, it was just me and Netflix and XBox and sweltering heat and hanging out with the few people I care about.  Here it almost started to feel like nothing but questions and judgment.

"So how is the job hunt going?"
"Any churches biting?"
"You gonna get a church soon?"
"Not even youth ministry?"
"You're too qualified for youth ministry"
"Are you in the ordination process?"

There was a lot of lying and evading on my part those first few months.  Just filling out a job application or padding my resume gave me literal mini-panic attacks.  Sooner or later a church was going to want to hire me, then call up the district and find out what had happened and I'd lose another opportunity.

Things were getting bad.  I was in my home church, and I was out of the "BU Bubble" and being reminded of just how much I'd been pampered by the seminary lifestyle.  God was always He, always Lord, always a million things that I didn't believe in even when I did still believe.

Okay, reader, take a deep breath.  That was the low point.  Everything sucked and I hated my life.  Yes, there were some dark thoughts there, and it was around the time that certain more dangerous ideas entered my head that I knew I needed help.  There is a light at the end of this shitty tunnel of a year.

So I got help.

I saw a psychiatrist and got these nifty little white pills.  I'm seeing an amazing counselor who says the nicest things.  I have a job.  My brothers, some friends of ours, and I have a weekly tabletop game that is absolutely the highlight of my week.  I'm going to a Unitarian Universalist Fellowship where I know my doubts are welcomed with open arms.  I'm tearing up just writing this, and for the first time in a long time I'm not ashamed in the slightest of that fact.  I'm happy.  2013 can kiss my ass, and so help me, I'll kiss 2014's ass if it buys me a little good luck.  Speaking of superstitious beliefs (is ass-kissing superstition?), my thoughts aren't so dark anymore.  I don't know what I believe, but I'm feeling really comfy in the greys again.  I like the greys, that's where I live year-round.  I have a cottage with a stocked fridge.  You should come by.

Photo Courtesy:  Hyperbole and a Half

As for the title of this blog, it's my own little snarky jab at the Reconciling Ministries Network of the UMC and their #ReasonsIStay thing.  A lot of people are hanging around in the UMC despite our Discipline's harsh stance towards queer folk.  And bully for them.  The UMC's gonna need 'em.

I've basically decided at this point that I can't be that person.  I suppose I might say, in my own self-deprecating way, that I'm not strong enough.  Whatever you might call it, that's not my place.  I'm not a culture warrior, and I have pretty much zero interest at this point in changing hearts and minds.  And I refuse to try again in an ordination process that refuses to recognize what real grace looks like, or that doesn't know the first goddamn thing about psychology.  After all, look at me now.  Am I the picture of mental well-being yet?  Hell no, but I've only been at this, realistically, about three months.  Imagine what would have happened if they'd given me a year to get myself together.  They'd never have lost me.  I'd never have doubted.  But they forgot Wesleyan Tenet #1 - Grace.  They showed no grace whatsoever for a soul who was hurting.  I wasn't unfit for ministry, and I'll prove that some day.  But I'm not going to do it through a system that doesn't even respect me enough to think I could become a better person.  Which is weird, because I could have sworn that was the whole idea.

Funny.

+++++

So there you have it.  That's been my year.  I'm basically going to work on ignoring most of it from about January through October or so.  Then I might actually be able to call 2013 a friend of mine.

In related news, I'm hoping to make this blog more of A Thing.  My sole resolution this year, except perhaps for the usual "Lose, Like, Five Goddamn Pounds, You Fat-Ass, Seriously, How Hard Is That?" is to blog once a month.  I think I can work with that.  We'll see how it goes, eh?

Happy Freakin' New Year.

PS - Yo, if anything here sounds like something you would be interested in talking about, just let me know.  Comment, send me a message, send me an e-mail, call me up, whatever.  I'm doing about a million times better and I really do want to hear from folks and do so when I'm not in a stupid head space.  Seriously, whether it's to catch up or to talk about how much depression sucks ass, I'm here.