Facing the Darkness

Twice this weekend I sat down to write about the dark cloud of racism and discrimination that is increasingly shadowing my country. Twice I could not bring myself to post what I had written, because the words were just too hard to share. The heaviness I felt in my spirit over the weekend could not be lifted by any of my usual practices of self-care.

The actions of the current administration and the words of the pseudo-president communicate loud and clear that justice for all is most certainly not the goal or concern of this government. They will support the forces of racism, exclusion and discrimination. The America they envision as great is a white, patriarchal, heteronormative state, run primarily by wealthy, powerful white men, and perhaps a smattering of others whom they deem worthy of including in their little club. Anyone outside of a narrowly defined “normal” has no place here. Our civil rights are not the concern of this unjust state.

How does someone like me, a member of a marginalized community that is currently the focus of numerous attacks, live in such an environment? This question has troubled me for days. Despair lurked at the edge of my mind. Is there a future for my country as a place where diversity is welcome, celebrated and recognized as a key source of our strength as a nation? Is there a future for me? I expect that I experience these threats more personally than some of my friends, because my community is one of those facing the brunt of the outpouring of hate that our illustrious “leader” is fostering. How can I not take it personally?

The darkness has lifted somewhat today. Not because the threat has passed. The threat is just as real as ever. The power elite in government and their supporters have not changed their tune or their behavior. I feel no more confident of my safety and well-being today than I did yesterday. But I hold on to hope, because I also remember that I am fortunate enough to live in a community that says “This is not our America. This is not the America we believe in or want. This is not an America we are willing to accept.” I think of my friends and the leaders I know in my community, and in my mind I see numerous faces of people who work every day in their jobs and in their personal lives to create a community in which all people can live safely regardless of race, ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation or gender identity. We’re not a perfect community but we, like many other communities around this country (I have to believe!) represent the future of America. The storm will likely get worse before it’s over, and in the moments when hope flickers, I will reach out to my friends and be reminded that I need not fear. There is light in the darkness. I am reminded of a verse from the Christian Bible: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

To all my friends who stand for a community that is open, diverse, inclusive and just, who reassure me regularly of your support and care, thank you. Your light helps keep mine burning.

Insecurities

As I lay down to sleep the other evening, a familiar message played in my mind. The message tells me that no one would notice if I just disappeared, if I were no longer here (in the fullest sense of that phrase). The message says that I don’t matter enough to any one for them to miss me. And it hurts deeply, because it touches my deepest insecurity: the one that says “I don’t matter.”

The message was fueled that particular evening by the way events had played out. I had chosen to go out for the evening because I didn’t want to sit at home. I had reached out to some friends to see if anyone wanted to join me, but received no response. I decided to go anyway, because I wanted to demonstrate to myself that I had the confidence to go out on my own. This may sound strange, but for me it’s a very significant mental obstacle. The evening passed enjoyably enough. I even crossed paths with a few people I know. But in the end I sat alone in a bar enjoying my vodka cocktail and feeling terribly lonely. It’s an awful feeling. Which fueled my insecurities and reinforced the message in my mind. On such nights, thoughts of leaving this world are not so distant.

That particular evening I more or less successfully turned off the message by recalling the people I do matter to. I pictured each individual, reflecting on what she meant to me and how she would miss me if I were not here. I thought of the friends to whom I can turn for support and reminded myself that their unavailability on a given evening did not negate their care and love. This positive self talk turned away the demons and I fell asleep peacefully.

But the demons will be back. They recur often enough, sometimes with much greater intensity. When they are at their worst, I try to reach out to friends for support, which is a risk, because if no one responds, it only reinforces the very message I’m trying to turn off. Not reaching out is an even greater risk though. These demons can lead me into a very dark place, one I almost never speak of.

Writing this has taken a great deal of effort. My mind shouts at me not to make myself so vulnerable, not to speak so honestly about things that best remain hidden. I want people to see me as strong, as successful, as a woman who has risked a lot and in return found so much reward. Which is true, but it’s not the whole picture. I’ve made great strides in affirming my own worth to myself, but I still have deep insecurities in this regard. Even with my closest friends, I hesitate to speak of my struggles, for fear that they will reject me. Thankfully, they are better people than that and the love and support they continuously show, the words of affirmation they regularly share, are slowly pushing back the darkness inside, slowly wearing away at this message that I do not matter.

My deepest insecurity also fuels one of my greatest strengths and passions: to communicate to others how much they matter. I worry sometimes that I will drive my friends crazy telling them how much they matter to me. I’ll take that risk, because I think we need to hear that message, even if we don’t have the insecurities I do. In a world that communicates the opposite message to us so often, we desperately need to hear how much we matter, how valuable, cherished, loved and important we are. If I were to die tonight without another chance to talk to my friends, I would not want a single one to have any doubts about how much they mattered to me. I even try to communicate this message, at a less personal level, to the people I interact with in the course of my daily life. Because when we know that we matter, even just to one other person, it transforms our perspective on ourselves and on the world around us.  

I share this tonight in the hope that, if you find yourself in a dark place, hearing messages like mine that say you don’t matter, you will realize that you are not alone. You are not the only one who feels this way at times. You do matter. You matter because you are you, because you are unique and irreplaceable. I hope you can hold onto that truth and speak it to yourself over and over. You are not alone. You matter to me.

Bad Social Justice Warrior

My town had an anti-racism march on Sunday, and I didn’t go. Not because I don’t support the cause. Quite the contrary. In fact, I feel a bit guilty that I didn’t march. I’m thankful for all those who did. But on that date, at that time, it was not the way for me to express my protest against the rising tide of white supremacism in this country. (To be totally fair, not a single of my friends who went has in any way shamed me for not being there, so this article is not a response to that.)

I absolutely believe we must stand against the hatred, the racism, the xenophobia, the transphobia and homophobia and all the other evils that this movement represents. I also believe that each of us must choose for ourselves how we best do that within the scope of our lives, our energy, our well-being, and our strengths. There’s no one single way in which to raise our voices, to commit ourselves to working for a society that is inclusive, just, and equitable for all.

When one reboots one’s life midstream, one gains the benefit of choosing what to refill it with. As I’ve rebuilt mine, I’ve sought to choose carefully and wisely how to invest my time and energy. I simply cannot fight every battle that I’d like to fight. I cannot speak out every time this fucked up administration does something shitty. I cannot march in every protest. To do so would leave me burnt out and useless to myself or anyone else. Working in the nonprofit world and interacting with many people actively engaged in social justice, I have observed that many of them -- wonderful, excellent, passionate people -- are also very busy and often exhausted. I admire all that they do, but I don’t want to become like that. So I seek to balance my engagement level with my capacity to engage fully and actively while maintaining space for myself to recharge and refresh.

In the years I worked overseas, I didn’t allow this margin for self-care. In fact, self-care seemed almost sinful. After all, when you’re working for god, thinking of yourself is the last thing you’re supposed to do. I think that contributed significantly to the burn out I experienced after several years. I loved what I did, but the stresses and demands of that life piled up and slowly drained me until I was running on fumes, an empty shell of myself.

I don’t want to return to that place. Last fall, as I began reengaging with life and finding my role in my community, I examined a number of options, all of them good and worthwhile. None of my initial explorations went anywhere. Now, almost a year later, I find my plate filled with a healthy balance of activities that contribute to the well-being of my community, in particular the LGBTQ community. These activities utilize my strengths and resonate with my passions. There are still a hundred other good causes I could join with, every one of them worthy and in need of people. But to take them on as well would be to cross the line I have drawn for myself to keep a healthy life balance. I allow myself to say no, and it’s okay.

I don’t write this to defend myself. I don’t have to defend myself. I’m a flawed, imperfect social justice warrior. I wrestle to recognize my privilege even while I struggle with the challenges of belonging to a marginalized community. I want to continue to grow as a woman, a feminist, and an activist. I want to do so while making a concerted effort to keep margin in my life. If that makes me a bad social justice warrior, than so be it. I won’t be silent. But my contribution may not always be visible.

How are you standing for social justice, inclusion and equity?

Friendship

I read an article that came across my social media channels the other day. The article, originally written in 2012 (ancient!) was reposted by the New York Times and examines the challenges of making friends as one gets older. I can relate to this topic.

My nomadic life has always presented challenges to maintaining friendships. I’ve lived in 7 different cities in 3 different states and 4 different countries since completing university. In addition, when I presented as a man, the dynamic of male friendships further hindered me from developing and sustaining meaningful, lasting friendships. Between the two, when I returned from living overseas in 2011, I functionally had no significant friends in my life. My closest friend, a woman, lived in Tajikistan and due to the distance and the relational dynamic with my spouse, I had to really step back from that friendship. I had no one I could count on to do things with me. I had no one to confide in. My social life consisted of doing things with my spouse, my parents and my children. Since I worked on my own at home, I had no meaningful connection with anyone who wasn’t related or married to me.

We joined a home Bible study group through our church, and I made some acquaintances that way, but I found it difficult to develop any depth to those relationships. I reached out to some of the other men in the group, but their lives were filled with work, family and the friends they already had. They were polite enough, but there was no real opportunity for meaningful connection. Women, with whom I naturally preferred to form friendships, were out of the question at the time, due to the previously-mentioned dynamic with my spouse. I honestly thought that if I were to die, the only people who would attend my funeral were my immediate family members.

Coming out brought new opportunities, as well as new challenges. For the first time in my life I could freely pursue friendships with other women, and in that regard my friendship circle has exploded. I’m so thankful for this. Still, finding friends in my age range has continued to prove challenging. Most of the women I know who are over 35 are married or in long-term relationships. Many have children and all have jobs and full social and family calendars. Not surprisingly, a significant percentage of my current friends are in their 20s and early 30s. I love this, because they enrich my life in so many ways. But I appreciate the value of the friends I have found who are in post 35. I can relate to them about life experiences in ways I cannot with my younger friends.

I’ve had to adjust my expectations about my friendships. I have to recognize that most of my 35+ friends do not have the flexible schedule that I do. They don’t have the freedom, or sometimes the energy, to decide to go out for a drink on a moment’s notice. I’ve had to accept that sometimes getting together once every couple months is the best we can do. We can still develop a meaningful friendship under those conditions. It just takes effort, commitment and a long perspective. I face similar challenges with my under-35 friends because many of them are juggling multiple jobs, or studying, or both. Life takes a lot of time and energy.

I have wrestled with accepting that forming meaningful friendships, whether those friends are under 35 or over, takes time. It takes commitment, and investment by both parties. Friendships don’t develop overnight, and I’ve only known most of my friends for a relatively short time. When I remember that, I realize how thankful I am for the network of friends I have, and especially for those who have become particularly close, the ones I know I can reach out to and talk about things, even if the conversation has to occur by text message. I am thankful that women seem, in general, to do better at building relationships with other women. I don’t want to be a prescriptive essentialist and state that men simply cannot form deep friendships. I’m sure they can, though my experience didn’t demonstrate this. I cannot say what it would be like to be a man in my position, looking to restart one’s life after 40. I don’t think it would be easy. But maybe I’m wrong. Someone else will have to share that perspective.

I do know that for me, forming new friendships has taken intentionality, persistence, effort and a willingness to take the risk of reaching out. I also know, and am immensely thankful, that doing that has proven profoundly rewarding for me. I wouldn’t be where I am without my circle of friends.