Draft Of An Email Never To Be Sent

I started writing an email to my mother the other day. I have been having these thoughts about work and money and life and wanted to get them down. As often happens with writing, when it rains it pours, and I poured my heart out. Some of it is specifically aimed at things I've talked about with her, but much of it is simply an exploration of anti-capitalist thought and of my life experience. I don't claim a political label, but everything I've learned to name, I've learned from people who didn't have the privileged of being raised in (messy) simulation of White America's Dream. 

In many ways this message is at schoolmates - from boarding high school and from college. Folks who walked the corridors of old institutions built when white america was a different character and when whiteness was more secure - or at least what's what I've been told by white people. 

--

There has always been this expectation, whether inferred, implied, or unconscious, that I do something great with my life. (of course great is subjective but that's allowed in this expectation, it just must be great by some standard) Being raised on dreams of 'you can be whatever you want' and 'go out and make the world a better place' - the people in my life from 0-20 taught me that I needed to do something. To start a company, to find a professional job, to DO something to be proud of. 

This is what I find toxic about capitalism today.

Drunken Admissions

I don't like my body. I have never liked my body. I am still shocked that some people see it as desirable even. I made major life decisions around my changing my body. I injured myself because I wanted to change my body. The kind of injury that will never heal. The kind of injury that only happens with recklessness or negligence. The kind of injury that I could have prevented, if I didn't feel the need to have a different body. 

I have a square chest and broad shoulders, a thick neck and big head/hands/feet, but short legs. I am built like a bulldog in many respects. I have never been in a fight in my life, but only because I could easily scare people. I hated this. I took steps to change my body. I forced myself to masochistically enjoy being going without food. I got hooked on cigarettes. I refused to exercise. I hoped that forcing myself to become thin would help. I wanted a body that I could love. I lost weight, a lot of it. It hasn't changed much.

I still long for a body i can love. 

I know I won't get it. 

I'm trying to love this body. 

It deserves love right? 

The same body that has hurt, has harmed, has humiliated, has been hurt, has been harmed, has been humiliated, is worthy of love. Maybe not from anyone else. But from me. If I can't love the only thing that is truly mine, can i really love at all?

The First Buds of Spring

Although i don't feel like there is hope for me. I will keep going. Even though looking forward is super hard and most days i just want to curl up in a ball and hide, I will keep going.

My Truth

Rehab is a wake up call. It is a promise and secret.
the promise to face the pain and despair and stigma
the secret that was stored away in a jar in your heart

Angst

fuck today.

I want to change my name.

I want to change my body.

I want to start over.

I want to feel like there is something left to discover.

I want to feel like there is something I could do.

I want to feel like life is worth living.

I don't do any of these.

I can't.



Fuck today.

I should shower.

I should brush my teeth.

I should clean my house.

I should apply for another job.

I should go for a walk outside.

I should make some food.

I should get help.

I don't do any of these.

I can't



Fuck today

I need to get help.

I need to find a job.

I need to help others.

Trying to Stay Woke

Some days I really think I need help.

Other days I think I need to help.

I can't let my mind wander without it wandering back to that ultimate thought.

The last thought I will ever have.

My survival depends on knowing it is there, but avoiding it.

So my survival depends on not letting my mind wander.

But my life depends on my wandering mind.

Without that, who am I?

...

Connecting with My Self

My ancestors mean a lot to me. They have always meant a lot to me. I feel them with me in my dreams and in my blood and in my heart. In some ways they have always been a source of pain, in other ways they have been a source of love, of knowing, of seeing. Ogsie taught me pain and he taught me pride. Babka taught me grace and taught me compassion. My grandpa taught me selflessness and he taught me humility. My grandma taught me the power of faith and taught me that our family is all we have, even when it's hard to be around them. The lessons I learned from them were just the start though, connecting to the past both in books and in my body has shown me a path towards inner peace.

I am writing this on the eve of my birthday, on the eve of completing my 22nd year on this planet. In my lifetime, the world has changed so drastically that my disorientation is all too common. Just, ask anyone who grew up alongside the internet. It's freaking weird.

The colors I bleed

IT’S IN MY VEINS

as my painted nails curl into my palm

head bowed in shame

with eyes of glowing thunder

the depths of my heart

splayed on the table like rotten meat

CAN YOU FUCKING IMAGINE?

my gut searches for a target for the rage

my heart knows nobody but me deserves it

so I sit alone, hurting nobody but myself

thankful for at least that

at least nobody is suffering by my hands

at least i can pretend so

for those who see something in me

there is no protection

only the me

overchill to compensate for the violence

anti-competitive to compensate with adrenaline

but these don’t counter the cruelty in my heart

there is no counter for cruelty of the heart

even when it manifests as self-care

Raised Online

I'm pretty tired of hearing about 'Millennials' and how this ~facinating~ generation is \insert_generic_critique\. There are so many opinions out there about me, about my peers, while not even really listening to what we are saying.

the violence in my blood

[This post was never finished and from some time ago. After rereading it so many times, I know it serves the purpose it was intended to.]

i am beginning to understand something about myself. something that is in my blood. something that was passed down to me through stories, genes and social conditioning in general. It was the reason i played a lot of competitively physical sports growing up. It was the reason i began, an continue to, have an unhealthy relationship with substances. It has defined my dysphoria with masculinity. It is still a part of me. It is something that I will never quite get rid of, but hopefully I can learn to live with it better.

Imagine the classic scene of the person strapped down to a chair in some evil lair. Their eye's clamped open forcing them to see what it in front of them, a wall of screens. Images flicker between split second static transitions. short videos and images reflect of the pupils of the person, as they can't help but bear witness to this barbarism.

I close my eyes sometimes, and see those screens, flashing violence and pain. Some days, I can turn this down until I go the whole day without seeing it. Other days are not so nice. The static fills my brain until the only thing left are the images, the thoughts, the feelings. Violent Painful Rage. It lives in my heart and occupies a space in my thoughts that I have tried, and failed, to quiet.

I first tried to indulge these instincts with sports, and with fighting. As a child me and my brother fought a lot. I  played soccer all year round for 6 years, and another 5 years of soccer alternated with tennis, then lacrosse. When I was able to, I played football and wrestled, the most violent sports I could find. I would lose myself in moments that felt like life or death. Regularly going up against people a foot taller than me, and much heavier. The euphoria of the fight still haunts me, I know no bliss more pure, more intense, than reversing a headlock in the 5th minute of a match against someone 3 years older and 40 pounds heavier than you. Just writing this, my palms are sweating and my heart is beginning to beat faster.

ultimately, this didn't actually help satiate my urges. Sure, during the seasons I was playing the sports I was usually too tired to feel angry, or do much of anything else to be honest. During the off seasons, or during my dreams, or in painful moments, those images still came to me. Even stronger now that they tasted the sweet nectar of rage. These moments were especially profound when I remembered back on the events my freshman year of high school. Where I was publicly humiliated for getting caught smoking weed. That's a story for another time, but it certainly didn't help me feel like the community I lived in wanted me there.

I dropped sports, suddenly and without much remorse. Not only was it not good for my mental health individually, but the culture of the teams I was on were pretty disgusting. I never paid it much mind, as I never was close to the kids on the teams who were loud, well-liked, and horrible human beings.

Next I tried to silence these instincts with drugs. First weed, then alcohol, then cigarettes, then harder stuff. They would work, but never quite like I wanted.

[To be continued when something new works]

The Male Feminist

"Empathy is not particularly elusive. It only requires an earnest quest to understand and act on that understanding. The problems women face in this world require the engagement of all the world’s people.“It’s very important for everyone to be a feminist.” "

   source

I really appreciate the simplicity of this call to arms. In this moment in time, violence against women is on the minds of most Americans. For some of us, it has been on our minds for years, or longer. There is a certain amount of truth to be said of the soundbite above, and it is enticing to those who don't know how to move forward in chaos of the national media circus. But in reality, this is not much different from saying that the only thing needed to counteract privilege is to become aware of it, and while that is definitely the first step along the way, it is easy to overlook the depth and seriousness of the issue when everybody is telling you there is an easy solution. It is easy to say that you're not of those kinds of people, but really changing who you are comes as a result of dedication and discipline. 

a new direction

I've been going about this all wrong. Its easy to get caught up in the appearance of, the show of, the communication of identity. Swept up in what I thought a gender-queer person was 'supposed' to look like.

Aesthetic principles have ruled my life. I like to think that I resist power, something I a have resisted because of my privilege. I could always tell that I was treated differently than other people. I used to dream about how when everybody else turned around they lost their human form. They would melt away into dripping sludge golem. Then, as I slept each night they would meet and discuss the roles they would play for me the next day; a math teacher, ice cream salesperson, my mother, my dad, and not but certainly not least my brother. He was the architect. My brother has always been to me the personification of /systematic/. When I first pondered on my own privilege as a male-presenting, white, well-educated human being I had the most incredible flashback. I was sitting at the counter of my house, except I was looking down on myself as my family came in one by one and upon leaving my field of vision transformed back into their 'true' selves, communicating on another level literally behind my back. Since then, I have been quick to incorporate it into my  conscious self, to be mindful of the connection I have to this idea. I have spent a long time realizing that I have done a lot better.
 That fear lives as deep inside me as my comparatively old hallucinations; an experience always brought on by fever or induced ~sickness~.  Exploding in scale, like a balloon, the pressure of the air fighting me back for each square inch, my chest seizes and I can't breathe.  The next thing I know, all the air has been let out. The air wins out, cramming my whole expanded self back into my self for just an instant before taking its sweet revenge. There is no baseline to return to any more, other than brief moments of lucidity, just a continuous cycling battle of pressure, sucking the life out of me.
That's why NOLS was such a life changing experience. I started to see the power of life; something that was not an artefact of humanity, but of all life. Still, in the human world, our social environment, defines a large part of who we are. Humanity, in many ways, has become obligately  social. It is incredible how strong an evolutionary force the company of others has become.

Anyways... Gender is more than appearance. Gender is about social interactions, and in our society people take their cues from appearance much of the time. I have always tried to downplay the importance of my appearance. I know this is a point of privilege, but it is not necessarily bad, I must own my privilege by giving it up, but I think that all people should be able and free to dress however they want, and I want to dress like me. Poorly fitting clothes, typically male, but not exclusively. I want to express my non-conformity through nail polish and eye-liner and lipstick and my hair style. If I were a female-bodied person, I would be a tom-boy. That is just me. Deal with it. 

Is this how I get better?

It is 9:30 in the morning. I have already had more depressive, masochistic, suicidal, and pessimistic thoughts than I could bear, at least on most days. But there is something about today...
Each time my stomach started to turn due to the self-hatred of my current thought, I stopped it. I stopped everything really. I stood in place, looked around myself, actively remembered why I am here, what I am doing, the goals I have, people that matter to me.
It seems to be working pretty well. At the very least this technique will get me through the week. I might end up drinking myself 6 feet under then though, I don't know yet, I guess we will just have to see.

War Memories I'll Never Have

I really wanted to be a soldier.
I will never become a soldier.

Growing up I heard story after story after story about the brave souls who gave their lives for the freedom of others. That was pretty much all my grandfather talked about, oh and how he used to be poor. He was the last of the men in my family history to go to war for this country, a tradition that started 150 years ago. Stories of war heroes so firmly engrained in my mind, scenes from war movies play through my mind's eye as I laid awake at night. Only, it is me, I am taking cover as bullets fly over my head. Advancing up hills and through bushes, we charge toward the enemy position. Planes flying overhead dropping napalm and shells on nearby objectives. It all feels so real. The smell of the gunpowder, the rumble of the explosions, the deafening sting of gunshots, the pain, the blood, the screams, the death. All of seems so real to me, even at an early age I knew it. I knew an experience of war.

At first I thought this meant I should join the military, that I was destined to fight. But I realized that I didn't need to, that the war memories I'll never have taught me enough to mourn the tragedies of war, to mourn the sacrifice of my ancestors, and to hold them up proudly such that future generations well not need to.

I have always been a soldier.
I am just now finding my own orders to follow.

Wow I had some stuff on my chest (a work in progress)

What is the self?
Does it matter at all if it exists?
tonight, i have been stuck in my mind, zooming in and out, from the experience of thinking my thoughts, to viewing them from way above. At the same time disjunctive and cohesive; continuous but with some 5th or 6th power variables.

Mornings are a challenge

Is the smile put on and worn like a pair of heels worth the work? This morning I doubt I have the energy to pull it off today, sadly all to common these days. My stomach is oscillating between cramps and loud noises, and I can't get warm. This is at least partially due to my heat being off, but nothing is separate, it is all part of my self. A self that is self-destructive, in pain, uncomfortable, burnt out, and struggling to maintain movement.

But that is only half the story.

Feels Today

This is how it must end.
this must be what needed to happen all along.
I... love you so much but know that I am not what you need right now.

I don't challenge you, don't excite you, and don't help you anymore
You have watched me grow up as I have watched you, so now all that is left is to leave the home in search of the next phase of life. The phase of life where we are 'together' is over. It has to be. My heart is aching like it is over, and I feel like I've been dumped.

We got in over our heads. We were actually about to move in together, planning a life together. That was never supposed to happen. How did that happen?

All I know is that you are by far the most important person in my life today, while your life seems to be growing away from mine. I grew my life around you for a long time, and you grew yours tangential to me. You have told me many times that it bothers you how easily you can abandon your own life for the sake of another person's. I thought I was aware of it, but I was wrong. I didn't realize how integral you had become in my life. How much I depended on you.

So I sit here craving your voice, your touch, your mind. I am trying to not attempt to pull you back into my life. You deserve better than me. I know this. But my stomach is in knots and I am afraid. That I won't be able to move on, that in order for me to move on I will have to entirely give you up, I fear that I will give up myself in the process.

I want to dedicate myself to school. To fall in love with the process of doing work. I need a project, or many. All the notes and problem sets and journal articles in the world will never replace the support you gave me. I'm dubious that anyone or anything will ever.

I am going to make hard cider. I am going to make whiskey, I am going to create my window garden, I am going to sell my material goods, I am going to ace O-chem, I am going to think up an amazing thesis idea, I am going to write a really good ES paper, I am going to do a legitimately badass independent project, I am going to rock my qual. I am going to rededicate myself to friends. Eliot, Aaron, Elaine, Brice, Dwayne, Tim, Hanna, and Liana. I am not going to go insane, I am going to survive.

Am I self centred? probably yes. But I'm at peace with it. I need to realize how important it is to myself that I be able to see people for whole human beings and deal with them on that level.

But for now I just need to figure out how to deal with you. I need to figure out if we can be friends. I need to figure out how to be your friend.

Mind Space Today

I'm taking a sledgehammer to my brain
nothing is exempt
nothing is safe
freedom at last!

taking one bottle down from the wall
i drink
red and hot it burns my lips

perfectly

the heat starts down in my belly
powering my every breath
seeping upwards, beating against my heart
tasting its goal as it laps up against my brain,
filling my neck with heat

it is hard to swallow.

my only hope is that this one final levee holds
the great flood that beats against it threatens
no, promises
to sweep me away on its hemato-waves
into the beautiful darkness of the setting sun

night is where the devil lays in wait
so i carry my offering of green and glass
in a shaking clammy hand
ready to ignite my offering to the devil
"one more day, i just need one more day"

those words
painstakingly engraved on the walls of my mind
shatter

sledgehammer playing out the role of my will
too tired to go on

I set the tool down, wipe my brow, and look up
the levee stands tall and bowed, a testement
to convictions I once had.

red, hot, rage splashes my ankle
a wave had crashed upon the lip of the levee
dripping early warnings down into my socks
into my sole, separating me from the ground.

it is coming.
there is no time to wait.
i must get back to work.

with one last long breath
the sledgehammer is in the air again
back at the work of undoing

in hopes that when the bottles of rage
rise above that final levee's wall
there will be no lies left

in hope that when the flood takes me
down to the red hot depths of the night
i will be ready,
at last,
to say,
"take me"

Porn: how sex is being used to ruin our kids

   It seems like I am not the only one who is taking a critical look at the use of pornography to satisfy the physical urges of young people and their genitalia, primarily young males. There is undoubtedly a physical response which could essentially be called addiction to the regular viewing of modern pornography. When this is combined with a little bit of neurological understanding about how the brain gets used to associating images and feelings, then building a mental connection between the two, it makes sense that young people's understanding of what is sexy is based on the ridiculous portrayal of sex in porn. 
http://www.vice.com/read/cindy-gallop-make-love-not-porn-interview?utm_source=vicefbus
I can't say it better than this person^.

Or this guy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gRJ_QfP2mhU

"Higher" Education

No, that is not an allusion to a certain favorite herb at college campuses around the nation. Maybe the quotations are more aptly put around 'Education' because the paradigm for education simply does not work in the US. It is just as hard to make a living before or after college. Although most people come out of their respective higher education facility with more knowledge and improved skills, translating that into something to live off of is nearly impossible for the majority of young people. It used to be that college was for those who were to rule over the rest of the ignorant and simple folk, that after a degree from a college, a job was almost guaranteed.
After looking at recent numbers and trends, let alone living through my own specialized 'education', I have realized that the entire way we go about teaching people is flawed. Practical skills have all but been abandoned, and the theoretical aspects are outdated and unhelpful. People have more information, theory, and data at their finger tips than they could ever analyse, yet we still think that teachers can impart theoretical knowledge into children.