I've Had Just Enough Time

I can tell getting off birth control is fucking with me emotionally. I never realized how large of a role my hormones play in my emotional and mental health until I got on birth control at 18; it was a massive difference. It's not as bad as it was then, thankfully, but still a mess. In the last three weeks, I can cry at the drop of a hat. There's this song that comes on the radio every once in awhile (as if I need more reasons to hate the radio) about dying young, and every time I hear it, I think of Will and turn into a messy puddle. I second guess myself, constantly, and find that I'm struggling to talk about my feelings even more than usual, which means I don't. At all. I'm spending way, way too much time in my head lately, and not in a good way.

I find I spiral out often, letting conversations that made me upset or hurt or angry come back up, having the same debates in my head, even though I know I need to let it go. I find myself asking philosophical questions that put me nowhere but in a hole with a shovel, looking for answers I can't find. I held a focus group last week, that along with a culmination of other factors, left me in such an upset and angry state that I couldn't talk about it for two days. I find I still have some of that anger balled up. I realize some of it is very justified -- the anger isn't just me, it's a response to a lot of bullshit from my old job, frustration with the situation we're working with and my own concerns about the people involved -- but any time my anger becomes this powerful, I have to walk away. I have to step away and shut down and realize that my response is not productive, and at the end of the day, it's not hurting anyone but me. I find myself doing this a lot lately. Mentally checking out of conversations, putting up a wall around myself, censoring a lot of what I want to say. It must be a form of hell to be around. I hate how short-sighted and insular I can become. It's not a fun experience for anyone.

I'm taking a lot of this as a sign that I need to walk away from some of the LGBT work I've been doing in the past two years in NOLA. I do this. I wander away, let go and disappear underground for awhile, then when I feel called back, I return. Lately it's become overwhelming to realize I'm dating and playing and working in the same circles. Everyone's got an opinion on what queer activism and society and social responses should look like, because we're all personally invested. I get it. I find myself getting wedged often between my beliefs and convictions, the convictions of my closest friends, powerful institutions and organizations, and the often biting opinions of people I work with -- all at the expense of either a) myself and my mental health or b) the very people we're all working to help, who are often the most disenfranchised in the community. Eh. It's exhausting. I get tired of having to constantly justify who I work for, what I believe, what I'm doing to make things better, how I'm walking a thin line between opposing viewpoints... and realizing that, when I come home and go out with friends and just want to turn off, I can't. Because those issues are still very present for them, and it comes up often. I find I can't leave my frustrations and anger at work, because my work is my life. I find that I'm having to constantly justify my personal queer identity to strangers as a way of making my work legitimate to people who take one look at me and assume I'm not queer. It's a lot of fighting, at the end of the day, and it comes home with me. I need a break from it.

I'll come back. Queer advocacy and sexual health is my heart and soul, always will be, and I'm like a moth to the flame.

I don't know if it's right to blame my frustration and my sadness all on the birth control. Some of it is probably burn out from my last job. My new job is going fantastic, by the way, and I really believe it was the leap of faith I needed. It's unreal to step off a sinking ship, and turn around, only to find out it was sinking a lot faster than I realized. I didn't understand how much stress I felt from that job until I changed jobs and found that -- wow -- it's such a drastic difference. I actually enjoy going to work, the people I work with, and what I'm doing. I've been busier than ever, working 40 hour weeks and finishing this research contract and going to school and trying to fit a social life in there, too. It's not bad, but I'm guessing the stress of thirteen hour days -- I had four in a row last week, not counting going out on Tuesday and thursday night until 1am -- isn't really aiding anything. Eh. Self-care never was my specialty. It's no wonder I have high blood pressure.

I can blame it on the weather or on my birth control. I can blame it on stress or missing friends. I can blame it on a lack of sleep or living alone or the back pain that makes everything a little more difficult lately. I can say it's the pendulum effect of being so up and on from the last few months or maybe I have inherited bipolarity, though that one I'm doubtful of. But the truth is, I don't really know what it is. I just know I feel haunted, in a way I can't seem to wake up from, and I'm ready for it to end. I'd compare it to going through life under a veil, but that's just a little too close to the bell jar metaphor for me to really feel comfortable about saying that. It's probably the truth. But I'm scared to admit it. I keep telling myself that this will pass, that maybe after a month things will flatten out. I kind of hope so, because this kind of emotional intensity is absolutely exhausting. I imagine sensory integration sensitivity feels like this. My emotions are a little too raw, a little too exposed and easily overstimulated, always on. All the time.

I'll get back to writing about sex soon, I hope. I want to. I've got stories in my head that I need to let out, but unfortunately, they keep getting pushed to the back of the burner lately. I don't want this blog to feel like work, when so much of everything else in my life does. So I'll come back to it. I always do.

The City That Care (Didn't) Forget

So, I should be studying for this massive test I have Monday. Ugh. I have been, truthfully, and I won’t dull you with the details of school. But it should be said that most of my thoughts bubbles under the surface until a big bout of procrastination forces me to find something else to focus on – like cleaning my kitchen. Or writing blogs. :)

***********

Mardi Gras is rapidly approaching. Technically, it’s been Mardi Gras since Epiphany – January 6^th. But the crest, the climax, of the season is next weekend. The parades began last weekend, and there are quite a number this weekend, though I’m sitting them out for now to focus on school and work. Next weekend is the big weekend – from Thursday night through Tuesday evening, the city will be a mad mess of drinking in the streets, beads, and thousands of locals and tourists indulging in their every desire before Lent. I’ve seen it as a child, as a college student, as a rider on a float (in north Louisiana, anyway), and now, as an adult. It’s much more than simply drunk college students who try to flash for beads, but if you haven’t been here, then I’ll suffice to say you won’t understand without experiencing it.

Anyway.

Mardi Gras last year was pretty fucking miserable for me.

I’m just going to put that out there.

The parades were fun, yes. I had a great time at Muses and the handful of others that I attended. Actually, the best part of the weekend for me was the walk to and from my house, crossing St. Charles, seeing families and groups of friends, children running in circles, fences draped with beads.

Last year, at this time, my life felt like a crash course. I was working two jobs, and I had no money to show for it, because I was paying for my girlfriend’s share of utilities and rent and groceries. I would lie awake at night, trying to figure out how to stop my money from flying out of my hands before I could make it. It felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest, all the time. I was working one job at a restaurant, and though my bosses and the restaurant itself were really cool, I felt like I was going into a coma for hours just to make it through the day. Mardi Gras weekend I worked every day, eight to ten hours a day, in a state of constant chaos – hundreds of people, two hour waits, drunks, kids, stumbling over other staff members. It was great money, but the whole weekend was an exhausting blur. My other job I enjoyed, but the board member who controlled my employment was constantly trying to get me to do immoral and ridiculously stupid things, like lying on grants. I felt like I was constantly fighting him at that job, and it was wearing thin what little sanity I had left.

I was in school that semester three nights a week, which meant my days lasted eleven to twelve hours – wake up at 9am, go to work, go to school, pick up my girlfriend from work downtown, get home by 11pm or midnight, sleep, rinse, repeat. My classes weren’t going very well. I felt like the program wasn’t anywhere as high as my expectations, and I felt cheated because the reality wasn’t what I had been told.  

But really, I could have handled all of that. I can survive being broke and the stress of school, and Lord knows I’ve worked some jobs that made me want to pull my hair out. The tipping point was my girlfriend. Three and a half years in, and it was really, ridiculously clear that things were unraveling. We weren’t getting along, and I was feeling really trapped. I loved her, I cared about her. I honestly thought (at that point) things could work, or I was just too scared to admit to myself that I knew better. I’m not sure. But everything cracked to hell at Mardi Gras. We went to Muses and had a great time – it’s my favorite parade. Afterward, I agreed to go to a party at her coworker’s house, where we both proceeded to get trashed, well beyond my comfort zone, and in front of all her friends and coworkers, she flirted the whole night with the girl she was cheating on me with. Maybe ‘cheating’ is the wrong word, but it’s the best I’ve got right now. Fucking with my knowledge but without my consent or approval. 

Hm. That’s about right.

I couldn’t handle it. I left, got in my car when I was well beyond the capacity to drive (thankfully, I hit nothing), went home, and passed out on the couch. She fucked the girl, came home the next morning, and told me. And then asked me to pay her rent the next week. I remember so clearly, driving my car as we left Zotz, when she told me she didn’t have the money for rent. I wanted more than anything to drive my car through a wall, but I wasn’t stupid enough to wreck my car and put myself in an even shittier place.

I ran into the girl she was sleeping with at least once a week back then, and I vacillated from wanting to tell her off to just feeling really sorry for her. It was obvious she cared, obvious she was getting invested. She was young and sweet and naïve, and I wanted to warn her that she was going to get hurt. She would be collateral damage. But I wanted no responsibility for that, so I kept my distance. I told my girlfriend to think through this, to realize what she was doing. But as it became increasingly clear over the next few months, either she didn’t realize or didn’t care, and everything and anything became collateral damage.

Most of that weekend is a blur. I remember driving on Claiborne, stuck in traffic, and we were both crying. I wanted to be around her – I wanted the person I used to know, not the one that was there – and yet I wished she would just disappear. I hid at home or ran from the house, depending on the moment. I cried three, four, five times a day, at the drop of a pin. I had so much pent up sexual tension (on top of the stress), that I was a fucking emotional wreck. If I wasn’t crying, I was pissy and annoying.

I’d only been living in NOLA for a few months, and I knew almost no one. The few people I knew well were in the same boat as me – so busy they didn’t see the light of day often. It was isolating and miserable, and I felt extremely lonely. I realize now, looking back, that I had so much anxiety and sadness and anger at the time that I didn’t want to be around anyone. Social situations were overwhelming. Most everyone I had met knew me as a part of a couple, and they adored my girlfriend – she was charming and sweet and funny, she’s easy to love the first time you meet her. I shy away from many of the people who met me during those months. It wasn’t me. I was ashamed of how miserable I was, ashamed that I didn’t know how to tell my girlfriend “no” as much as I wanted to when she asked for money. I was ashamed that many of my friends felt like I had a great relationship, when they simply didn’t know the truth. I didn’t want my friends to hate her, to “take sides.” I didn’t know how to tell people how fucking bad things had gotten – especially when I couldn’t even admit it to myself yet. I didn’t want to be a burden.

*************

A year later, looking back, it’s like I stepped out of a haze.

I feel like I have put so much of this behind me, and it’s an amazing feeling to have some distance. So much has changed, and all of it has been for the better. I can’t even fathom it.

I have a job I love. Adore. I mean, like anyone, I have days where I’m frustrated, where I make mistakes, where I feel incompetent or unheard. But the truth is, I’m doing something that plays to my strengths, my interests. My boss is fantastic. I count him as a friend as much as a coworker, and I respect him immensely.

I’m making money doing something I love. Fuck. That blows my mind. I know that might not happen again for the rest of my life, so I’m definitely enjoying it while I can.

I have an awesome roommate. No, she can’t change the toilet paper roll, and she’s not big on taking out the trash. But we have so much fun hanging out that I don’t really care. We get along great. She contributes for her share, and I never have to worry she’ll be unreliable or late on rent. Even when we’re stressed, we don’t take it out on each other. My house feels like a home, a place I can be comfortable, again. It’s the best roommate relationship I’ve possibly ever had.

I have a woman in my life whose company I genuinely enjoy, who doesn’t expect anything I can’t or won’t give, and who is incredibly fun to experiment with sexually. I don’t feel like I have much to give after four years in a relationship. I’m gunshy and anxious at times, and I’m grateful to walk instead of jumping into something I can’t handle.

I love this city. Adore it. There’s so much here that I can’t do it all, can’t see it all. I’m finding friends again – old and new –who I enjoy spending time with. I can laugh again, and it’s honest and raw. It feels good.

I’m healthy. I’m financially stable. I don’t stay up at night anymore freaking out about money, wake up crying. My anxiety has dropped dramatically. I actually look forward to meeting new people. I don’t run the other way at the thought of new social situations. I’m learning to talk about things again when I have a problem, instead of internalizing everything. 

It’s really... good.

***********

I’ve spoken to so many of my friends from high school and college in the last year, and I’ve often heard the same story. They’re not happy. They hate their job, or they’re in a dead-end relationship, or they’re struggling with school. They hate that they’re still living at home. They’re broke or in debt or overwhelmed by stress. I began saying – believing – that many of us were idealizing what our lives should be, harping on the one or two things that we didn’t have instead of the many things we do have.

It comes down to this: the majority of the people I know have one of these: a great job, a city they love, great friends/family who live close by, or great partner. To have two is awesome. To have three or four – a fucking miracle.

In some ways, I rationalized that I was doing ok because I had a city I wanted to live in. I had at least one job I sort of liked, even if it was stressful and frustrating. And the rest – well, I was doing ok.

Looking back, I wasn’t ok. It's true I can't all go through life focusing on all the things I don't have -- there will always be more things I want than things I have. But I do think it is ok to say "no." It's ok to ask for more. It's ok to want more, to strive for more, to demand more. You'll never get what you didn't ask for. It's about striking a balance between desire and acceptance. 

Now – I’m a lot more than ok. I’m ridiculously blessed. I can’t really believe this is my life. I have more than I know what to do with. I can't believe that there's really nothing major I would change in my life right now. I mean, I could always use better health insurance, a better paying job, more time in the week. But that's all pretty minor considering how much is going right. :)

I’m so very much looking forward to this Mardi Gras – getting dressed up, hosting a house full of people, celebrating my roommate’s birthday, taking some time off work and school, possibly getting laid.  Parades and beads and beer and friends. Fuck yes. 

Laissez le bon temps roulez. 

sexual freedom

It’s National Sexual Freedom Day (wow, there’s a day!), and in honor of this great day, the Woodhull Freedom Foundation is hosting a blog carnival.

So it’s time to pick up a pen (or, really, my keyboard), and get down to the dirt of why I care about sexual freedom.

This week, I watched two different TV shows, both about parenting young children – “Modern Family” and “Parenthood.” Ironically, both contained plot lines where a couple was faced with how to talk to their young child about sex. In “Modern Family,” the five-year-old (or about that age) daughter started asking her parents about sex – specifically, if she came from her mom’s vagina, how babies are made, how eggs are fertilized, what the daddy “does,” etc. In “Parenthood,” a mom found a photo of a naked woman downloaded on her computer and believed her ten-year-old son to be the culprit.

In both shows, the parents had discussions about what to say to their child, and in both shows, there was a uniting theme: shame. One couple agonized about how many years it would take for their daughter to “live down” their explanation of sex – and the father speculated that waiting another 5-6 years before talking to her would be appropriate. The mother winced at any mention of the word “vagina” and “penis,” though she did try to push for honesty, while the father kept trying to change the subject. In the other show, the father told his wife that a mother talking to a son about sex would “scar him” and embarrass him; they both avoided discussing the subject and used bad euphemisms to try to get their points across. Granted, there were some comedic moments, but both couples implied that discussions of sexually are innately scary, embarrassing, shameful, and worth avoiding.

Wow.

I’m fascinated by sex and sexuality because they are an integral part of most everyone’s lives, and yet, in America, we have such a love-hate relationship with sex. We use sex to sell everything, from cars to clothes to shampoo… and yet, many women couldn’t find their own clitoris, and most people can’t have a frank conversation about sex without using some euphemisms or making bad jokes.

Sexual freedom for me is the ability to discuss sex, to have sex, to navigate what sex means in our lives in an open and honest way. I want to live in a society where we accept sex and sexuality as a part of our lives – not dominant, not non-existent, but integral. I want to live in a society where we don’t speak of sex as shameful – where words like “slut” don’t exist, where “masturbation” isn’t whispered, where condoms aren’t behind glass lock boxes. I definitely think this kind of repression hurts. Countries like the Netherlands, where sex is discussed at an age-appropriate level with children and contraception is widely and easily accessed, doesn’t suffer the same teenage pregnancy and STI rates that America does. I think children without a sense of shame about their bodies and their desires lead happier, healthier lives. And I definitely know, from statistics and experience, that queer kids who grow up ashamed of their sexuality and their sexual practices suffer from higher rates of depression and suicide.

Sexual freedom means talking about consent – as a theory, as a practice, and as a personal interaction. It means talking about rape – and working to end rape and sexual assault. It means talking about sex in nuanced terms. It means discussing that sexuality is different for each individual, as is sexual practice, needs, desires, and expression. It means easy and affordable access to STI testing, gyno services, HIV/AIDS testing, contraception, barrier protection (like condoms), and doctors who are educated and communicative about sex, sexuality, and your body and mind. It means learning, teaching, sharing.

Sexual freedom is power. It is the right to consent or not to, to be abstinent or sexually active, to be monogamous or poly, to be queer or straight – and all of those choices and states of being to be respected and validated.

Sexual freedom is the ability to express your wants, needs, desires. To have those desires validated and met, in a healthy and consensual way.

Once a week, I volunteer with a women’s shelter in town. It’s a great place with an amazing staff, a really inspiring method for helping women and their families, and the only trans-friendly shelter in town. I could talk all day about this place. But this week, I met a new woman at the shelter. Let’s call her “Georgina.”  She’s from a small Southern Louisiana town, where the sheriff’s office flies the Confederate flag right next to the Louisiana flag. Yes, Virginia, places like this do exist in 2010. Georgina ended up at the shelter with her baby girl, “Stella,” after being fired from her job, kicked out of her home, and basically, run out of town…all because she is white and had a baby with a black man (out of wedlock), and she has continued to date black men.  Her family, friends, and neighbors put her out on the street because they didn’t agree with her sexuality due to racist motivations.

I want a society that doesn’t allow this to happen. Sexual freedom is bound up, tightly, in equality – racial equality, gender equality, and queer and trans equality. There’s a lot of emphasis in the gay rights movement on “love.” But I think for that movement to become queer – to align with Stonewall, to align with eliminating HIV/AIDS, and to align with the needs and rights of people across this country – this movement must also focus on sex. We aren’t just talking about the rights for people to get married or have children. We’re talking about the rights of people to hook up with whomever they choose, and to do so without judgment and shame. And yet, many try to distance the gay rights movement from talking about sex for fear of losing support from straight allies. Really, isn’t sex where this a lot of this started in the first place? And isn’t sexual freedom just as important as the freedom to love – as if the two can be separated?

In 2005, in Lawrence v. Texas, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that sex, in the privacy of one’s own bedroom, is not a state or policed issue. But yet, many people still enforce a measure of shame on sex – the act itself, the gender of the couple, the race/ethnicity of the couple, the marital status of the couple, and even the motivation of the couple. It’s people like Georgina and Stella (and hundreds of thousands of kids in abstinence-only classes) who lose when shame and hatred are held as more important than love, freedom, and humanity.

We all could benefit from more sexual freedom (and more sex!). :)