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What I Need to Tell…

2015.December.14

I’ve had a bit of writer’s block the past month or so, not because there’s nothing to tell but because it’s all just a big jumble of rubber-bands — not one of those slick rubber-band balls that you pick up and strip away one swatch at a time, but a crumpled cluster of enthatched rubber of indiscriminant qualities and age.

I told myself it would be easier if I just started posting the topics; whether I followed through was kind of unimportant. I just need a reference point for future conversations, future reflections…

So here are some of the topics that deserve full posts and rigorous conversations (but probably won’t receive them):

Why did I have to go to Washington, DC, for the funeral, and why did I only stay for one impossible night?
Why did I hide myself with the former colleagues I saw there, making no mention of my successful plural relationships, my workshops supporting the same, and my interest in the same sexual and reproductive topics that we struggled to include in our work a decade ago? It’s no different from my crippling identity crisis when I lived and worked there, is it?
Why didn’t I ask them to talk about themselves more when all I wanted was to NOT spend the whole afternoon talking about myself (and doing exactly that)?
How do I feel about the fact that our deceased mentor was the only one of them to stay in regular contact over these past four years of caregiving?

Healing is incredibly hard, and it’s impossible to know how much there will be until things are stable. My self-care and relationships are probably in critical-but-stable condition.
I am exercising restraint and caution when thinking past the holidays. I need openness and flexibility then and rest and low pressure now.
I have got to find a way to break myself of the old habits that became dormant during caregiving.
I really want to get back into reading.
My brain still doesn’t feel like my own. My mood and endurance know great heights, but I still mix up words and drop things as much as I ever have.

I was the first caregiver I knew of my generation, but I am far from last. Already, friends and peers are approaching me to share their accounts of dementia in the family and identify a path forward.
If I expand my umbrella of “caregiving” beyond just dementia/memory care, I realized I know quite a few part-time and full-time caregivers under the age of 30, 40, 50. We are not as alone as we think.
The first piece of advice I’d give any new caregiver might just be “Caregiving is not a spectator sport.”

Also under the category of “not as alone as we think”, I’ve discovered a lot of people were following along my adventures online these recent years who never once spoke up in support or comfort. My loved ones had already helped me understand before my peers themselves did that said peers simply didn’t know what to make of me and my circumstance, but I’m almost as resentful of their reemergence en masse now that I’m “normal” again as I am that they were ever absent. I just don’t think they realize how much of myself I forgot existed, and how many voids little notes and acknowledgments would have filled. I wish any one of them had said, “Hey, you’re going through a rough time, but I can’t hang while you’re going through this; drop me a line when your life isn’t consumed with old man smells and navel-gazing.” But this is literally all I want to ever say on the matter, because I love them all for being there now.

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All My Old Haunts…

2015.November.30

I had a poetic opening, but that part of my brain has been lost to logistics.

It was a hard weekend — not without highlights, but they were diffuse, like a bright lamp in thick, close fog. You didn’t know you were upon them until they’d already passed. You didn’t know when or whether more would follow. And between them, it was easy to lose direction.

I wouldn’t have seen the news of the passing of a dear friend and colleague if I hadn’t left a certain app on my phone some months ago, because it had been the easiest way to connect with my mom while she stayed with my caregivee. Less than two weeks ago, we placed my charge into a memory care facility; although I visit almost daily, my era as a full-time caregiver has ended.

I’d been trying to gather my thoughts on what to write, how the move was upside down — straightforward emotions and exhausting logistics — how I’d intended to start this grand phase of healing with eyes and heart wide open but so far have struggled to get even a good night’s sleep (let alone a good perspective).

But here we are. Less than two weeks into my bloody, fumbling, desperate heal, it’s time to pack a bag, board a plane, and mourn one of the best people you could meet.

I started writing his eulogy immediately, a short one (because nothing else will do for a person who has done so much) about how he’d barely known me, three years in the same office, ended ten years back, and yet this man of accomplishment and knowledge had checked on me more than any other from that time. He’d always asked about my caregivee, even before the dementia signs, as if he’d seen known our paths were destined to merge.

Last year, he talked to another good friend, who had moved to the area and was struggling to find a job. Her career trajectory was only tangential from his, and he had only my reference to go on, and yet he gave his time and focused insight freely.

I had intended to reconnect with him, and with everyone I will recognize at his funeral, some time next year. Probably a road trip. Maybe a happy hour and a networking lunch. I wanted to see them all through new eyes, and see how they see me. Most of them, it’s been ten years. I have a devastating fear that some will not get word in time, but maybe that’s a symbol of one’s impact: that it’s simply impossible to reach everyone in time before one’s funeral.

The timing is eerie. I’m not sure I could have attended a funeral one day sooner after The Big Move. And my departed friend just re-added me on Facebook a few days ago (he had a propensity to forget passwords and, inevitably, create new profiles because he loved to connect so much).

I was supposed to have a plan, an agenda, some sense of direction and questions I wanted to ask, some notion of how I was going to connect my past as an activist with my present as a caregiver and my future as a contributing member of society. What do I want to be when I grow up? I don’t know, what does your movement want people to grow up to become?

I’m going in empty-handed, though. Just a business card and an openness to follow the experience wherever it takes me. There are sure to be stories.

He would have wanted it that way.

Now here’s an adroitly relevant video from St. Vincent:

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Storytelling as Self-Articulation

2015.September.13

I could probably wax philosophic for a thousand pages on the ways that fiction can help us understand, articulate, and interpret our realities, but this fun little example happened the other day so all you get is a sample anecdote:

My beloved and I have been watching Farscape (a fun Australian sci-fi set on the other side of the galaxy), and after my weekend off we sat down to an episode called “Through the Looking Glass”. In it, the spaceship of the main cast makes an error exceeding light speed and splits into four parallel dimensions: besides the “normal” dimension, three variations appear, tinted by colors. In the red dimension, everything is unsteady and nauseating (hindering the body); in the blue dimension, loud noise disorients (hindering concentration and communication); and in the yellow dimension, everything is inexplicably hilarious (even if it shouldn’t be).

The parallels for my caregivee became apparent when he came in (mid-episode) to tell me about all the jokes he’d pulled over the weekend, such as telling the cashier at our favorite barbeque joint that I was absent because I “got mixed up with some Arab girls and ended up in jail.” But he reassured her that he’d taken care of it and I was out now.

His red days are the days when he can’t keep his balance, his blue days are when his memory is especially confused or his aphasia especially pronounced, but last Sunday…

Sunday was a yellow day.

Farscape

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Snapshot: Hi Again, Joan.

2015.August.31

JoanWhen you’ve been lurking around ‪#‎OKCupid‬ as long as I have, you develop this strange digital neighborhood of familiar faces: not close enough to be a “community” or send Christmas cards, but people you know, people you saw on the street that one time but didn’t approach, people you always wanted to message but didn’t, people who message you often but with no rhyme or reason. And sometimes, there are even people who live on the other side of the world, have never messaged you, have never made contact in any way, and yet drop by regularly enough that you start to ascribe them a personality, maybe even a story.

Joan here has been my unspoken pen pal for as long as OKC has shown you your visitors (‪#‎backinmyday‬ they called them “Stalkers”, but it was okay because that’s how you’d be described if you visited their profile…). She still has the same profile pic. I haven’t looked at her profile in 5+ years, easily, but she still comes around several times a year to see what’s shaking, maybe track my poly adventures, maybe ogle my newer pics.

It’s quite possible that Joan has a long list of favorites and she cycles through them constantly, obsessively but without objective, and there are so many she only reaches me every few months. Or maybe she only cycles through when she’s lonely, a relationship has gone sour, and she’s hoping against hope to make a connection with one of these fine fellows, if only ONE of them would reach out first (but Joan wouldn’t, couldn’t, be first).

But… I don’t know… I like to think Joan and I have something special.

Maybe we’ve moved beyond that youthful transatlatic crush, and her visits express only the familiar nod of experience. There aren’t many profiles as old as ours still around (let alone profile pics! We get it, Joan, you’re a tiger…). We’re the old guard. We knew what OKC was like when nobody was poly, but those who were COMMITTED to it. Not like kids these days.

Still I never message her. We’re pretty much beyond the stage where words even matter, aren’t we? This is the hallway nod of the internet. “S’up.” Not a question. An affirmation.

“I see you.”

Hi again, Joan.

I see you, too.

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Snapshot: Gender and Attraction

2015.August.25

I was asked by a male-identified person about the lack of Y-chromosomes in my current polycule. What follows is the bulk of my response, posted here for posterity or whatever:

My gender identity is cisbastard. I got that Y chromosome you were talking about (as far as I know) and was designated-male-at-birth and I’ve gotten by more or less okay like that (being tall, surly, and able to draw probably spared me from a disproportionate number of ass-kickings as a preteen, but I’m okay with that). What I really got by without, though, was a traditional father figure enforcing masculinity. I had a loving grandfather-figure and an evil step-father and a father whose face I knew but not well and that was about it. Their respective gravities, along with other privileges and talents, allowed me to slip through the cracks of gender enforcement for the most part. The further I got away from any sort of strong relationship with masculinity, the less I needed one.

I’ve been attracted to women my whole life. I never had a cooties phase. I tried to be friends with everyone, but as I got older, I found that men were the hardest to make and keep as friends. I just didn’t get them, by and large. In recent years, I figured out that lacking a personal relationship with masculinity has made it distasteful to me, but in recognizing that, I’ve been better able to unpack gender stuff in my attractions and see people as people regardless of genitalia. I still shy away from flaunted masculinity in friends, sex, and romance, but because that is so common and so fundamental to how men are taught to function, it makes me much more attracted to men who don’t exhibit gendered power dynamics. In general, I find people attractive for their feminine or gender-neutral traits, and the brighter these outshine their masculine traits, the stronger is that attraction.

I suppose I should state here that I have a definition of “masculinity” that skews negative but also narrow (however common). I associate it with power, dominance, aggression, taking up a lot of space, anger over compassion, shouting over listening, etc. etc. etc. I have yet to see someone present me with a so-called “masculine” trait that I couldn’t either re-interpret as gender-neutral or feminine or otherwise find harmful to all parties involved. So if I say that I don’t find someone “masculine”, it is meant as a compliment, and does not necessarily correlate to how that person genders their own positive traits.

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Social Media, Self-harm, and the Gambler’s Ruin

2015.July.12

In all of my totes-academic 2nd- and 3rd-hand reading, Michael Crichton once introduced me to the concept of “The Gambler’s Ruin”, sort of a piece of chaos theory that states winning streaks and losing streaks are inevitable, and each will get longer and more impactful the longer a person gambles. Accordingly, the secret to good gambling is not really how you gamble or how you bet, it’s knowing when to quit (i.e., near the end of a hot streak).

Feels a lot like Social Media, doesn’t it? I’ve been a power user for years, and I’ve known that there are good days and bad days and bad weeks and bad years… I’ve known that sometimes the most important support I can get is the support to take some time off the Internet (especially the social parts of it), especially when it starts to feel like I can’t catch a break. I’ve also seen the “winning streaks”, the days where the stars and pixels align and I am inundated with all the support and affirmation and cute animal pics I could have ever asked of the Internet just when I need them most.

Of course, the more I win, the more I want to win, and sure enough, I don’t get out in time.

The other day, I pointed out the parallels between social media and The Gambler’s Ruin to a lover who happens to be a counselor, and she backed up my half-joke with a serious factoid: social media has been proven to stimulate dopamine in the same way as does gambling.

I can’t think of a clever phrase that encapsulates the correlation (“The Facebook Ruin?” “The Gambler’s Timeline?”), but clearly this is A THING.

I’m also thinking about how susceptible I’ve become to negativity in activism. I’m never in on the victories because my circumstances prevent a high enough level of participation at this time, but boy am I in on the losses and the squabbles along the way. I’ve had to start saying that activism is self-harm for me in my current context (caregiving). The more I think about it, the more I think it’s just online activism that is self-harm. I can convene with interested parties, help people network, educate on important issues, and even attend a rally or something and not feel worse for it. It’s just the link sharing and flame wars that get me into heart-achy territory.

I guess online activism (especially without any offline support or involvement) is also susceptible to The Gambler’s Ruin, and it is a game at which I am particularly bad.

In accordance with my philosophy of Imperfectionism, I am posting this as soon as it is finished, with almost no revision, second-guessing, or elaboration of my quirky sense of logic. The Michael Crichton book in question was The Lost World, which is basically a book on logic and an errata on Jurassic Park disguised as an unnecessary (and highly profitable) sequel. It’s nothing like the movie, and therefor I highly recommend it.

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After the Victory Lap, Take a Moment for Hindsight

2015.June.26

Please, please, please celebrate all weekend. Then next week, or the week after, or say the end of summer at the latest, come back and contemplate this:

One of the secondary victories of today is that a wedge issue has been decimated.

Same-sex marriage did not become a national issue in the hands of the people who wanted those marriages, but in the hands of people who either A) wanted to extra-double-ban those marriages and/or B) pretend to do A just to get more conservative reactionaries into the polls.

As this tactic eventually led to backlash from LGBT communities and their allies, the added a C) divert activists and resources into turning that backlash into a movement, invariably at the cost of many other issues along the way. It’s not that this fight wasn’t important or necessary, it’s that a lot was sacrificed along the way.

In the nineteen years since the first shot was fired over same-sex marriage, the Defense of Marriage Act of 1996, conservatism has run roughshod over almost every other issue in this country: education cuts, military spending, suffocating access to abortion, getting away with torture and wiretapping, dismantling net neutrality, media conglomeration, (lack of) finance reform, privatization, skewed trade agreements, the dismantling of American unions, the prison-industrial complex, bastardizing healthcare reform, and stalling out immigration reform.

In the time that we succeeded in having a national conversation over the right to marry, we have failed to have a national conversation over the fatality of being black in this country, the dehumanization of trans people, the quality of veteran care, the militarization of police, the urgency of climate change, waste and unsustainable practices in food/water/housing, the inadequacies of our two-party political representation, or whether $7.25 is anywhere close to a “living” wage.

Marriage equality has even created some fractures among the people it is supposed to benefit, LGBTQA-identified individuals. Some of the most prominent organizations fighting for marriage have been inconsistent at best and complicit at worst about trans erasure; their biggest campaigns have frequently failed to include perspectives of poverty, people of color, and immigrants, and change that is not intersectional is hardly change at all.

I put forth that marriage equality was inevitable, and that the most cynical of conservative strategists have always known so. Their battle, then, was never to prevent same-sex marriage, but to drag it out as long as possible, to normalize gay and lesbian relationships as little and as begrudgingly as possible (thanks in part to media and entertainment industries that could always be counted upon to show these relationships in the whitest, wealthiest, and most traditionally attractive ways, so that only a narrow expression of them became commonplace), to mobilize conservative voters with this single issue whenever possible, and to leverage this highly visible battle into real, long-term political consequences that slipped under the radar on pretty much every other front.

I don’t say any of this to steal a single tiny thunderbolt from this huge and hard-fought victory. All I’m saying is that now that this wedge has been defeated, we can’t lose momentum. We can’t decide to stay home now and keep our contributions to ourselves; those same cynical conservative strategists have already picked the next eight battles if we let them continue to set the narratives. Just look how fast they were ready to sacrifice the Confederate flag once the topic came around to gun control one too many time.

A lot of other hard battles are ready and waiting for you to carry your enthusiasm, your time, you money into the next struggle for equality, so don’t spend it all on celebrating. There’s still work to be done. Pick someone whose life doesn’t look like yours and listen to what they tell you they need. Those cheap equal-sign stickers will still be on your car in a month; who will they re-humanize next?

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