Hello Trauma, My Old Friend

Today was not my best day. So far… it isn’t over yet, and I try not to allow moments to define hours. Or hours to define days or weeks… but that’s sometimes far easier said than done.

As I dashed off to the neighborhood convenience store for yet another two packs of cigarettes, I wondered to myself if I didn’t need to express some pent-up rage. See, smoking keeps that neatly bottled up for me. When I don’t have immediate access to nicotine, rage is what creeps in. Don’t ask what I’m so mad about, because the answer is “everything and nothing at all.”

I’m a 56-year-old trans woman closing in on 57. What I have “left” in this world at the moment is both substantial and, in my darker moments, paltry. When my internal sun is shining, I am immensely grateful. But when the clouds roll in I am terrified of losing it all. I am decidedly ungrateful when my feelings of frustration begin to swirl and pick up momentum like the gathering of a tornado. And it can happen in an instant, especially without my old friends, the cigarettes on the table next to me.

This world made little sense to the child that I was, and in so many ways still am. While I’ve always done my best to shake off martyr syndrome, I also ask, “well, what is a martyr anyway?” Is it “one killed for their beliefs?” Or is it “one who elicits sympathy by exaggerating their sacrifices?” Or is it one marginalized through a lifetime, perhaps one day an example of how terrible it all was? My mother didn’t live the life she wanted. And she wanted us all to pay dearly unto her death because she (usually, begrudgingly) put the needs of the family above her own desires.

I did much the same, but in an extreme effort to NOT do that to my own children, I sense I may have pushed them away as they left the nest. It’s a daily subject I wrestle with and not the topic for today.

I wasn’t literally killed for my beliefs, but I was certainly tortured for what I was and what I was not. I never processed that pain much until the last 6 or so years as I began to explore transition. And I can’t say I’ll ever be done with the processing. Triggers abound, especially as I live now in the ancestral home where the worst of it transpired. And today, today I wanted to scream as loud as I could for as long as I could because I am scared. SO much feels out of my control at the moment. 24 hours to a day, two of us trying to cobble together an income, and too many days on too little money.

And the notion that I am supposed to feel grateful every damn day often feels like yet another LIE sold to muffle the proletariat and keep the rabble in line. I mean, I am grateful I have a roof (for now) and food and Dear friends. And a man who cherishes me. I love him so very much. And I get angry sometimes that he and I have different “work ethics.” I’m not suggesting for a moment that he is “lazy” or that I am not. I think perhaps I unintentionally resent the fact that he has never forced himself out into the world for years on end, working multiple simultaneous jobs he hates to finance this American Dream. I did. I had mouths to feed and educate beyond my own, and I pushed myself hard for a very long time. He is wired differently. He is willing to suffer for the sake of art -for the sake of conviction, perhaps. I never was, really. I traded a lot of my life for a few dollars and functioning household utilities. I’m exhausted.

I tell the world I don’t resent the 24 years I spent dedicated to raising my children and attending to their needs well before my own -and I mean that sincerely. I’m so very proud of them, no matter what. I was an active and engaged parent who gave those two children every opportunity possible, and all the love I had to give. I don’t resent raising them one bit. Do I wish they valued me a bit more, or at all? Sure I do. But I’ll never heap guilt on them the way it was heaped on me. I want them to enjoy their lives as much as possible, as often as possible. And my partner was raised to believe that was his right as well. I was not. Not even close.

So much of the kerfuffle in this world is over others not being under the same rules of civility, behavior, conduct, society- call it what you want.

Those of us conditioned to be polite whites grimace when others don’t live in our little cages just like us. We get so caught up in The Rules, and so flustered by who follows them or doesn’t, and I quite think we miss the point of having rules at all. You need only look at republican state legislatures across the US, and our current cast of politicians comprising the majority of SCOTUS to know “Rules” should not always be followed -or respected- at all.

I have only one hard and fast relationship rule at this point in my life: I will be cherished. That’s it. Four words. The rest is negotiable or unimportant. I mean, I want my fiancé to be honest with me, but that’s part of being cherished. We’ve been quite monogamous since before the pandemic, but that’s not a rule. Not for me. Perhaps what I do struggle with is that when I was raising a family, cherishing my children meant working a series of less than wonderful jobs to care for them. So I think I had a “rule” about doing whatever it takes to Provide.

But even that means different things to different folks. And maybe I overemphasized that role and subjugated my soul for a very long time.

I’m not as employable as I once was. It’s a hard pill to swallow, but on the other hand, I don’t want to lock myself into menial work each day that enriches others while I shuffle the bills of a subsistence. I want far more from the rest of my time on this planet. So far, that means living on the thin line between solvency and catastrophe. It’s not the easiest place to exist. And I’m here to freely admit, that the worse things are, the more I insist on affording those two packs of cigarettes. It’s not logical by any definition. It is an addiction. I’m not proud of it, I continue to wrestle with it, but the monster that emerges in my head isn’t worth the struggle at this moment. I gotta tell you when Joni Mitchell referred to tobacco as a “grounding herb” that resonated hard with me. It may be a great big LIE perpetuated by Big Tobacco, but I admit I love to smoke. And really, of all the LIES we routinely accept and absorb, is this the worst?

So am I justifying a bad habit? Oh, honey. Of course I am. Will I adapt enough new thinking to let them go for good? Not thus far. I’m also unlikely to be a tee-totaler any time soon. I like the smoother edges from an evening cocktail. Even if it is jug wine.

For today, I don’t feel like beating myself up for wanting a cigarette and a drink. This world has been more unkind to me in fundamental ways than it has been kind. I wrestle with the truth of things every day. I balance facts and try always to find the things that give me hope. I live to have hope. I cherish Hope. And I am sure some would call that delusion. Let ‘em.

I live my life surrounded by art and artists. And I do my level best to create and not destroy. Because for me, a life without art isn’t worth the living. Much of the artwork that hangs (or waits to hang) in our home these days comes from artists we know and love personally. I feel their energy in those pieces. I remember our fondness for one another and the ways our lives have beautifully interacted. I find comfort in their works. They make me feel grateful even when I don’t much care to.

Back when my choreographer fiancé, Charles, and I got together ten years ago, he was producing a celebrated performance series. (Mostly) dancers coming together in a black box showcase with an audience collected from all of them, and through him. We stopped producing it to open a bar together. I was kind of an asshole about the Way Things Would Be in those early days of being a business owner. A year in I should have walked away from the venture when my business partner changed his Rules for how we would proceed, and my wings were effectively clipped. But it was my fiancé who stood beside me for another four years. We lived together in near-poverty to keep that place open. While it never flourished financially, it was packed with art and artists and creative expression. The decor changed monthly as the walls were embellished with the works of another visual artist, and another, and our stage was filled weekly with music, spoken word, and dance. Our essence could not help but emerge and infuse the space, even as our financing was held hostage.

COVID made the decision I could not manage on my own. The bar had to close for good. We had to move on, and we have. I could not manage to sell my ancestral home at the time, so I sold the home in the city where I had raised my children. I had infused that little house with so much blood, sweat, and drenching tears, but it was somehow no longer mine. It was a building. So it went and kept us afloat for a good long time as we moved to the ancestral abode. Full of ghosts and good bones, it has sheltered us as we worked long and hard to personalize it, pausing that action as the money dried up and we began a new venture: Full Circle (the Podcast.)

Six months along, our little indie podcast continues to grow slowly and methodically, new listeners emerging across the globe with each new episode we release. It has given us a wonderful weekly radio spot in the UK, and we’ve done interviews I’m proud of and quite adore. It’s “us” in the fullest sense. And it is another labor of pure love. Will it ever pay bills? Here’s to hoping, Dear Reader.

And a recent impromptu meeting at an outdoor performance has us discussing the revival of the performance series Charles created and I (eventually) hosted at his side. We know even more now, and we certainly know more artists. It feels like a natural and important reimagining of our “legacy.” It’s also a way, quite frankly, to play with what we would do with a live performance of our podcast. We have a lovely natural flow of energy and banter that would be fun to explore with a live audience. And we love bringing artists and audiences together.

I freely admit I hate existing on precarious financial ground. It isn’t “supposed” to be how a former polite white navigates the world. But it would seem I decided a while back that living authentically, and living as an artist supporting other artists, was my path forward. The only one that has remotely attracted my attention and commitment. So I’ll just have to TRUST that what feels right in my bones, even when it isn’t the most financially comfortable place I’ve been, is right and good for ME.

And just now, I’m gonna forgo lecturing myself about a cigarette and a glass of wine, and I’m gonna savor them. My old friend trauma is unlikely to ever leave me alone, so she might as well have a drink with me so we can get cozy.

Peace, Lovelies

- MM

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