That day that I roller skated..

I walked nervously into the Rainbow Roller Rink in Conroe, Texas on Sunday. I did what has served me through so many experiences in my life. I acted as if I was not afraid. 

I met my best friend’s people. They met me. I felt on display. I felt anxious. I wanted to represent myself well. I wanted to represent my best friend well.

My best friend Beth is wonderful. It seems that most join roller derby to hit people. Or perhaps to hit on people. Not Beth. She joined to make friends. That is who she is. I am so grateful for her and for them. Roller derby has brought her friendship and community and happiness. She was overjoyed to share this with me. I was not so sure about this. 

I was surrounded by beautiful, amazing, athletic women. You would think I would have been in heaven but I became more and more nervous with each passing minute.

I believe they drooled over me a bit. Six feet tall. Muscular. Masculine energy. Athletic. I LOOK like I belong in roller derby.

Until I skated… But I get ahead of myself.

One handed me skates.

Another knee pads.

Wrist guards.

Elbow pads.

Everyone seemed willing to help this friend of friend succeed.

I donned it all.

I should have opened with this:

I have not been on skates for 30 years.

Let me say that again.

I have not been on skates for 30 years.

I have not rollerbladed.

I have not skateboarded.

I have not snow-skied.

I have not water-skied.

At least one of my feet has been firmly planted on solid ground for 30 years.

I was here to skate.

They handed me safety equipment. I donned it all.

At the opposite end of the building from the entrance to the rink. 

Possibly not the best plan.

They tightened my wheels so I would have more control.

Bash offered her hand and said "Let's go, Jackson."

Wait, what? I'm not ready. 

“Come on. You've got this.” 

I rose unsteadily to my feet.

What do I do now?!?!

I clung to her. I clung to the wall. I clung to any solid object I could get my hands on. 

I was a little old man on a walker with unsteady feet coping with a sudden upheaval of gravity.

I slipped and slid and hobbled and clung my way down the snack bar. Small children skated by me. All got out of my way.

It was not pretty. I was not graceful. I was not good at it. 

My face started to burn.

“Let’s tighten those wheels a bit more.”

They tightened my wheels further.

Again she held out her hand. “Let’s go. We’re going to go step onto the rink.”

I stepped onto the rink. 

If this was a Disney movie, I would have taken one wobbly lap, then found my grace and my balance and my strength and I would have begun smoothly flowing across the rink. I would have sang a catchy tune and possibly picked up Beth and spun her in graceful circles as an accompaniment of forest creatures on wheels danced around us.

My life is not a Disney movie. 

I am Jackson. No matter how many dates, no matter how many tattoos, date shirts, chaturanga arms, and sexy haircuts I receive, I remain Jackson.

It was hard. I hugged the wall. Bash held firm to my arm steadying me. We went back and forth across the back of the rink a couple of times. I was awkward. I was unsteady. Her firm hand on my arm prevented me from falling several times. My face burned. My head became a bad neighborhood as the young children skated by. I wanted to hide as her teammates skated forwards and backwards and sideways and all around as I struggled through my embarrassing attempts at something which seemed so easy to everyone else in the room.

She told me to wait. I waited. She went to get a rack. That may or not be what they are called.

She came back with one of the training wheel walker-like pieces that they have. A PCV pipe walker with wheels on the end. She skated over to me with it and I felt shame. My face was already reddened by the insecurity of watching everyone else on skates manage this better than me. This my ego could not take.

But I wanted to skate with my best friend. These women, this team, this sport, they had become everything to her. They had brought a happiness to my friend that had been missing for far too long. I wanted to skate with Beth. 

Only the youngest children used this support. But I needed to use it. There was no countering the voices in my head that said I was failing. There was not enough step work on the planet to make using this device alright for a 42 year old Jackson. But I was not given a choice. She did not ask. She said "here, put your hands on this. Use it for balance. It's ok. This will help you"

I went back and forth with it a few times, getting steadier with each pass. 

Beth reminded me of how just over a year ago I felt this same fear and insecurity about yoga. And look at me now.

Look at me now indeed.

I gained speed. My fingertips were just grazing the bars. I was using the support less and less.

A girl, maybe around ten, skated over to me. She looked at me and said "you're doing great. You can totally do this. Just keep trying". I got a little tear in my eye as I wrote that. How sweet and kind and supportive! An adolescent stranger gave me a message that I could not give myself. 

“It’s time to try without the rack. You can do this.”

She held my arm. She told me what to do. She calmly and confidently skated back and forth with me as I found my feet.  

Lean slightly forward 

Bend your knees 

Engage your core 

Oh! Chair pose! I know this one!

“We’re going to go around the rink now.”

And we did a full circle of the rink. She held my arm. I fell once, slowly, with control, and I landed on my padded knee, just as they had taught me. 

I rested and then we did another circle, feeling more confident.

“Look up, Jackson. It's alright. You know where your skates are, where the floor is. Look up.”

Then we took another lap, but she let go of my arm. She skated next to me. When I threatened to fall, she immediately grabbed my arm and steadied me, but then she let me go again. 

I would have fallen many more times if not for her quick reflexes and strong, steadying arm.

Yoga has done amazing things for my body. Did it enable me to skate like them? Like the child I was many, many years ago? No. But it gave me some balance. It gave me the ability to correct when I would start to flounder. It gave me strong legs and strong core.

I believe I fell four times. 

I will take it. Not bad.

The little girl would occasionally skate by and cheer me on. 

Bash did eventually leave my side, but not until I was confidently skating lap after lap on relatively steady feet.

I skated with my best friend.

We laughed and played and went around and around.

All were certain that I would be very sore in two days. I am grateful for yoga and the body it has given me for my muscles enjoyed the workout and did not suffer for it.

I led a snake line! When I found my way to the back from the front, they cheered me on. “Come on, Jackson, give it a try!”

Nope! I’m good here!

There were pictures and good times and someone was usually there to steady me when I started to fall.

I led a cheer. This part I could do well. We do not do this in yoga, but we most certainly did in soccer.

WHOSE HOUSE?!?!?

I do not know at what point my fear turned to joy

.

I do not know when my fear of what you thought turned into the pleasure of being one of you.

I do know how I got there. 

However,

I suited up.

I showed up.

I took a deep breath.

I stepped onto the rink.

Admittedly, it took a nudge from a roller derby girl.

But who doesn’t at some point in their life need a nudge from a roller derby girl?

Thank you, Conroe Cutthroats.

I had a wonderful time.

Can’t wait to ride again. 

For France

Goddammit. Motherfuckery fuckety fuck. What in the ever loving fuck is the matter with this world?

September 11^th was the first time I remember feeling terrified for the world. It was the first seeds of thought that translated to “I am never safe.”

Being at work. Being at school. Pumping gas. Driving down the road. Sitting in a movie theater. Sitting in a stadium.

“I am never safe.”

Murder in the name of gods that would never condone these actions. Murder in the name of love. Murder in the name of politics. Murder in the name of insanity. Murder in the name of an antiquated belief that one’s skin, one’s gender, one’s sexuality, one’s beliefs, one’s religion, one’s politics, is somehow justified.

How did we get here?

When I worked the sixth step, I began to develop empathy. You know what? Fuck you, empathy. I don’t need this shit. I don’t want to feel the terror and the tears and the pain of an entire country that is under attack right now.

Insanity. This world is full of insanity.

There is so much pain. So much suffering. So much starvation and homelessness and sickness and addiction and death. This world is already so broken without us breaking it further, one bullet at a time.

If you have enough weapons, you can bring an entire country to its knees.

What to do? What can I do?

I do believe in the power of prayer. I have faith in the power of prayer. My feed is covered now with messages of Pray for France. And yes. Do that. Take a moment, bow your head or raise it to the sky and ask whatever Power you believe in to take away the pain and the fear and the suffering. Bring peace to France. End this attack.

And it will end. Maybe because of prayer. Maybe not. Maybe it’s just a silly superstition, like throwing salt over your shoulder. It will end because more men with more guns will end it. No telling how many more people will die before that happens, but it will end.

And once it’s over, they will rebuild. And everything will go back to exactly the same as it was, except it won’t. There will be more fear. And more hatred. And more blame. 

That’s what causes the most rage in me right now. The futility of it all. Tragedy happens, and we up the defenses against more tragedy. But there is ALWAYS another attack. There is ALWAYS another insane monster. There is ALWAYS another terrorist group.

We take our shoes off at the airport. We walk through metal detectors to enter schools. I went to the Social Security office today and they searched my bag. Nothing we do can stop the insanity of this world.

What can I do?

How to find love in my heart? How to find peace? How to find tolerance and acceptance and forgiveness? How to sleep at night?

I have no fucking idea.

This isn’t working. You see, when I’m full of emotion like I am this second, I sit and I write and I find the peace. I find the solution. I find the spiritual principle. The moral of the story. The positive message. Then I am whole and I can face the darkness that our world has become yet again.

I can find no happy ending to this fairytale. I wish I could.

All I can say is that although not a single person in France even knows I exist, let alone will read these words, I am sorry that this is your reality right now. I would take away your fear if I could. I love you. You are not alone. Help is coming. This night will end. You will know peace once again. Just hold on.

Maybe if we could all just give ourselves that message, and truly hear it, this world could start to change. Maybe

Sticks and Stones

I voted. So not the point of this story, but it should be.

I haven’t voted in a very long time. There’s no excuse for that. There are explanations/justifications/rationalizations, but there’s no excuse. I have not been a responsible member of society. I’ll say that again. I have not been a responsible member of society. I know it. I own it. I’ve changed it. So, I voted. I made the decision to do things differently, and I did. It feels good. It feels good to make different choices.

Those of you who have been following my journey know that I’ve changed a lot. Not just physically, although that’s a huge part of it. I still struggle daily with insecurity, but I do not live my life in fear. I have courage and sometimes I even can manage a confident swagger. It’s new, but I kind of like it.
  

It’s a beautiful day outside. The sun is shining. It’s cool but not cold. It’s glorious. The polling place happens to be right on the way to the post office and it’s a lovely day. A perfect day for a nice stroll.

So I’m walking. Audiobook in my ear. Sunshine on my face. Going to vote for the first time in I don’t know how many years. Feeling good. Better than good. Happy. Joyous. Free.

I don’t know who he was. I didn’t recognize the car. I only got a glance at it as it was passing anyway. If only I’d been listening to music. Usually I am and much less ambient noise gets in. I probably wouldn’t even have heard it. During a pause in the book, I heard the words roll out of his window.

“Hey dyke”

Lump forms in throat. Redness rises up cheeks. Tears try to form.

Just keep going.

(you’re different)

Fuck him.

(people are judging you)

Who cares?

(you’re weird)

It doesn’t mean anything.

I walked into the fire hall to vote and my mind was so discombobulated that I had trouble following the directions that they gave me. It felt like my head was underwater. Everything was a little hazy and the words didn’t seem to want to sink into my brain. I sat and looked at the ballot and had no idea what I was doing there, what I was supposed to do. A couple of deep breaths and I was able to focus enough to read the names, to remember who I had decided to vote for, and to completely fill in the little ovals. I got my sticker. I should’ve felt proud of myself. I deserved to feel proud of myself.

What I felt was the stares. The judgment. The separateness. Just like that, my head had turned into a bad neighborhood.

As I continued my journey up the road to the post office, each passing car carried another set of eyes that were looking at me. Watching my separateness. I heard the voices of my youth. “What IS that?” I was trapped in a shame spiral of self deprecation, insecurity, and self-centered fear.

Music. Sometimes music is just what the doctor ordered. “Release that Shit” playlist is in order. Loud, fast, angry, booming. Its sole purpose is to push the feelings away. Anger may not be the healthiest defense against self-centered fear, but it’s often effective. Master of Puppets so loud it made my ears hurt and the rage swept through my body and shot out my feet each time I felt them pound onto the pavement. A little Sabotage and I started feeling the music more than the emotion. Then, Suggestion.

Why can’t I walk down a street free of suggestion?

So my question for you, dear ones, is this:

Where do I vote to stop being a second class citizen?

Where do I vote to change to a world where anyone, anywhere can walk down a street without being leered at, or shamed, or judged, or risk physical violence solely based on who they are?

Where do I vote to be able to walk down the side of the road with the same rights, protection, and sense of security as a white, heterosexual man?

Where do I vote for that?

Also the term is genderqueer, dickhead. And I voted today. 

I have a Dad.

This was an emotional weekend. I was all over the map. Up. Down. Up. Down. All over the place. It got better, it got worse, it got better, it got worse. One of THOSE weekends. Locked in my brain, allowing the hamster in its little wheel to have free reign. Listening to the committee argue and following the suggestions of whichever voice was the loudest. Never ever a good thing. It was a cryball kind of weekend. Women who are criers probably won’t understand that reference, but for some of us, crying is a challenge. It simply won’t come. I equate it to a hairball. It sits in my throat and makes swallowing hard and keeps me constantly on the verge of panic or depression. It also makes my rational thinking go caput and the impulses of my defects start to seem like a good idea. I even tried pulling out the big guns. The Trapeze Swinger. On repeat. I almost hacked that cryball up but, alas, no luck.

I had spent the weekend with the Yoho’s. You know that thing where your best friend’s family adopts you and treats you like one of their own? They love you and accept you and feed you and parent you and are kind and gentle and generous? That thing. I spent the weekend there. I spent the whole weekend with a family who didn’t even bat an eyelid at meeting Jackson for the first time. They loved Jennifer. Now they love Jackson. It was like I never even was Jennifer. Just Jackson. It filled me up and my heart soared. Since my emotional landscape makes not even a cursory amount of sense, this made me very overwhelmed and kind of sad. I have talked to three out of four of my family members and two out of three have accepted Jackson. So yes, to get unquestioning acceptance and support made me feel some things that may or may not have matched the situation.

I am a masochist at heart apparently because I decided that this day, cryball day, was the day to talk to Dad. We talked about his vacation, the problems with his rental car, his work, his family, his life. I listened and inserted the appropriate “wow!” or “that’s terrible” or “fantastic!” in all the right places, while my stomach got more and more knotted and my hands started to tremble. Finally, the pause happened. He had run out of things to say.

“Uh, Dad, I need to talk to you about something and I’m not sure you’ll understand. But we can talk about it and you can ask me whatever you’d like.”

(gulp)

“I’ve never felt comfortable with the name Jennifer. It’s never seemed to fit right. I’ve felt for a while that I wanted to change it to something that better suited my personality.”

(deep inhale)

(deep exhale)

“I’ve changed my name to Jackson.”

There. I’ve done it. I’ve said it. And now, we wait.

….

…

…

And then my Dad, my father, my daddy, the man who protected me from the boogeyman when I was a little girl and terrified in my bed, began to speak.

“Even though I haven’t had a lot of exposure, I’ve never had a problem with gay people. They’re just PEOPLE. I think that if that is who someone is, then that is who they are. I remember when Ellen DeGeneres came out on that sitcom, it ruined her career. I’ve always thought that was just criminal. It’s just who she is. And as far as gay marriage is concerned, why shouldn’t two people who love each other be able to get married? Now that the Supreme Court has ruled that it’s legal, there’s still stupid little court clerks trying to gum up the works. You’re my daughter. I love you. I think the name suits you.”

I couldn’t talk. The cryball was blocking my entire throat.

He continued. “Do I start now? Do I start calling you Jackson now?”

Yes, Dad. Thank you. My full name is Jackson Alexander Clark.

“And how are you spelling Alexander?”

A L E X A N D E R

“It’s you. It sounds like you. It fits you.”

Thank you, Dad. Thank you so much.

“Do you look different? Have you changed your look? You know, I don’t have any pictures of you since you visited us in Naples (about 14 years ago). It might help me to seal it into my brain if I could see how you look now.”

Pictures. My Dad is asking me for pictures. The same Dad who 20 years ago mailed my brother and me boxes of all of our childhood pictures and papers. He asked me for pictures. He wants to see what his daughter Jackson looks like today. 

There aren’t words.

We said our goodbyes. I said “I love you, Dad. Thank you so much.” He said “I love you, too Jen… Dammit! I did it anyway!”

It’s okay, Dad. It really is okay. We’ll talk soon. Thank you.

I got off the phone and I texted him pictures. I got my first ever text from my Dad.

“Like your hair in this one. You do look quite different now. We can definitely associate your new name with the new images of you. You look great. Love, Dad”

And to my Dad, I am Jackson. Just like that.

I sat and read his text and the tears came. Not enough. Not enough by half. Just a couple. Crying is really hard when you’re not a crier. But the cryball is shrinking. I can breathe. I can swallow. I can talk.

My Dad accepts me exactly as I am.

Before I picked up the phone, I imagined all different ways that the call could have gone. I was way off. I wasn’t even close.

I have a Dad. My Dad. 

Call me Jackson

 I’ve been called a lot of things. Jenny. JC. Jen. Jenn. Bratlax (thanks, bro) (#yearsoftherapy), Jennifer, ma’am, Miss Jennifer, Mr Clark. And once, when an ex was REALLY mad at me, Jackoff. We won’t go into that one. People often ask me what I prefer to be called. My answer is always the same.” I introduce myself as Jennifer, most people call me Jen, you can call me whatever. I don’t like Jenny.”

It feels like a lot of time has passed since I discovered and accepted that I have the right to be handsome. I’ve made so many changes and grown so much. “It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.” More courage than I would have thought I possessed. But, afterall, I am braver than I believe. It says so right there on my arm. And Christopher Robin wouldn't lie. 

In the last several months, I’ve learned some new terms. Boi. Genderqueer. Masculine of center. I’ve had to use a lot of google. I don’t know if my lack of exposure to people like me caused my ignorance of these things, or if my ignorance caused my lack of exposure. Either way, I’m learning now. Forty one years of trying to figure out who I am and all of a sudden, boom. I’m here. I liken it to being in high school, discovering lesbianism, and running out and buying Birkenstocks (check), rainbow stickers (check), and an Indigo Girls cassette (check). Yes a cassette. Forty one years. Keep up, people.

When I googled the term genderqueer, it felt like putting on a pair of shoes that fit for the first time ever. I’ve spent my entire life trying to force my identity and my gender into a predefined societal box and it simply did not fit. Square peg, round hole. You can get a hammer and beat that damn peg through the hole, and you will get it in there, but it will splinter and rupture and fracture and break.

I choose wholeness today.

So, my name. Jennifer Anne. Girliest, most effeminate name ever. There is no wiggle room there. It’s all girl. I was almost a Kimberly. That wouldn’t have been much better. I’ve never felt comfortable with my name. (No offense Mom, it’s a lovely name. For a girl) But I’m not so much a girl. I’m not so much a Jennifer. I’ve been told that most of my adult life. “You don’t seem like a Jennifer.” No one could put their finger on it anymore than I could. It just didn’t fit. Now, it is beginning to make sense.

I realized that I have the freedom to decide how I would like to be identified. It’s exciting and exhilarating and terrifying. Yes. I’m terrified. I hope to never get so evolved that I no longer care what you people, my people, think of me. It no longer has to dictate my behavior, but it still matters to me. I stayed stuck for so long out of fear of being judged and fear of being abandoned and fear that the love you feel for me will be taken away if you don’t like what you see.

How little faith I have in you…

The reality is that I know that the people who love me are here to stay. And the people who could be driven away by me becoming who I really am, never really loved me to begin with.

So I wanted an androgynous name. Something that could go either way.

My heart had other plans. From the moment I started getting the urge to change my name, Jackson has been stuck in my head. I know, I know. Not so much with the androgyny. (you keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means) I know it’s a man’s name. I kept trying to find something different, the right one, the name that would fit. Jackson. I couldn’t see past Jackson. I have no idea why. It could be because my best friend is in love with Jackson Avery on Grey’s Anatomy. But more so, I think of Steel Magnolias and Julia Robert’s character Shelby. In that movie, she is the epitome of woman. Everything about her is what I envision a lady to be. I can hear her voice, see her mannerisms, think about the way she moves, and THAT is woman. And then there’s Jackson, her beau. Her man. Dylan McDermott was as much man as she was woman. They complement each other like oreos and milk, like yin and yang, like Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock.

Jackson.

The longer I couldn’t shake Jackson out of my mind, the more time I spent turning it over again and again in my mind. Kudos for mom when she gave it to me anyway. Jennifer Anne Clark. J.A.C.

Jackson. 

It’s a name that fits who I am.

The people closest to me know that I’ve been going through a ton of changes over the last year. Long overdue changes. I believe that the people who have known and loved me over the years have seen my struggles with my identity and been powerless to help me. I needed to help me. I needed to work it out. I needed to get there.

I’m getting there.

Hi. I’m Jackson. It’s very nice to meet you. (tail wagging) 

Another National Something Day

Today is August 31. There’s a “National EVERYTHING Day” isn’t there? It’s almost laughable. You can’t throw a stick without hitting some national day. Talk Like a Pirate Day is my personal favorite. Shiver me timbers and such. Avast me hearties.

Today is National Trail Mix Day. Why? I have no idea. I enjoy a good trail mix as much as the next guy but, really? We need an honorary day for it? Trail mix. Really it should be about education. Eating an entire bag of trail mix is not good for you, dude. Yes, there’s nuts. Yes, there’s fruit. Yes, it’s all grains and healthy shit. Portions, people. Portions. And if you just eat the M&M’s, you’re missing the point.

I’m really ADD today.

In addition to National Trail Mix Day, it is National Overdose Awareness Day. As I said above, I really enjoy me some trail mix. However, I feel like it’s a bit more important that I talk about the other national day happening today.

Everywhere, people are dying.

Let me just say that again.

Everywhere, people are dying.

We can blame doctors. We can blame parents. We can blame pharmaceutical companies. We can blame dealers. We can (and usually do) blame the addicts themselves. There is no blame here. There is an epidemic here. It’s devastating. It’s heartbreaking. If I knew what the solution was I’d give it to you, but I don’t. I wish I did. All I have is my experience.

I started blogging because of a post I wrote on my anniversary a few months ago. Some of this may be repetitive, so I apologize in advance.

From the jump, I felt like I didn’t belong on this planet. It was as if each day, before school, there was a meeting and everyone was there. They all talked about what was going to happen that day and how they were going to act and who they were going to be. Each and every day I missed that meeting. I spent each day simultaneously trying to figure out how to do those things, and trying to pretend that I was at that meeting. I couldn’t let the collective you know that I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. And each and every day it got worse.

Until the day that I discovered drugs. For the first time in my life, I experienced what freedom felt like. I never comprehended how uncomfortable in my skin I was truly was. I mean, if you always feel the same way, you don’t recognize that there’s any other way to feel. Until I got high. All of a sudden I was relaxed and funny and charming. I felt attractive and likable and connected to other people. I felt like I belonged on this planet. I felt like everyone else looked like they felt. Why wouldn’t I want that? All I ever wanted was to belong. To have people love me and accept me. Drugs broke down all the barriers of insecurity and fear and let me be present on this planet. For a time.

Fast forward 20 years past two recoveries and relapses and a whole lot of good and bad life experience.

I had been sober 9 years but was only going to a meeting once a year to pick up a medallion (oh how I used to judge THOSE people). One day my back was bothering me. A coworker handed me a non-controlled pill off the shelf and said “take this. It will help.” That feeling exploded through my chest. Happy. Joyous. Free. I was bouncy. I was talking too much, too loudly. I was laughing and playful and excited. Manic. I was manic.

I don’t call that day my relapse. I believe that I could have recovered from that day, had I only had some sort of a network in place. (Some would argue that had I network in place, I never would have taken the pill, but that’s a chicken egg type thing). My relapse occurred the next day when I took another. Chasing that feeling.

I had a home. I had a job. I had a car. I was, for all intents and purposes, successfully living life. And my (not so) dormant addiction had been lit on fire. That day started the vicious cycle that only someone who has been addicted to a drug can truly understand.

I need that feeling.

I need to use to get it.

I have to use more to get it.

You should be ashamed of yourself.

You need to stop.

This thing happened. I have to use to get through it.

You must stop.

Why can’t you just suck it up.

What are you, a pussy? Just stop!

Well, just today. I’ll just use today.

They’re going to find out.

You’re going to lose everything.

I just need to use to get through today.

A plan is what you need. A taper plan. Follow the plan and you’re golden. You’re free.

I can’t. I simply can’t. I cannot stop.

For 18 months I fought the fight. I. HAD. TO. USE. I went to work. I functioned. I lied, I cheated, I stole.  I did what I had to do to survive. I had to use to survive. I did things that were against my morals and values. I did things that I don’t want to admit to you. Things that I want to be able to be “the kind of person who wouldn’t those things.” But I did them. I had to do them. I am an addict. When I am in active addiction, the only certainty is that I WILL use.

Towards the end, I had started having seizures. My body was falling apart. I was committing suicide on the installment plan. One pill at a time.

Why did my story not end with overdose? I don’t buy into the “I’m blessed” system of thought. Nor do I believe that I was somehow “chosen” to make it. To believe in a God like that (and this is only for me. If those beliefs help you, I’m glad you have them) would mean that at any given moment, some clash of the titans god could point at you and say “now you die” and could point at the guy down the street and say “now you get recovery.” I believe that I was very, very incredibly lucky. Had my supply dried up, had I been caught before I staggered my sorry ass into Narcotics Anonymous, I do believe I that would be dead today.

Opioid addiction is very hard to maintain. In a lot of places, heroin is cheaper and easier to get. And we’re dying. Addicts are dying. Left and right. From overdoses. Good people who in so many cases just needed something to help them feel ok. And who among us hasn’t at some point just needed to feel ok?  I wonder how many people that we’ve buried because, many years ago, they made one decision to turn left when they should’ve turned right. And it was over for them before it began.

There HAS TO be a solution.

There HAS TO be an answer.

More of us are dying than are living.

I truly am one of the lucky ones. 

I am a writer.

There’s a yoga and writing retreat happening the weekend of my 42^nd birthday. Two lovely young women whom I have mad respect for are hosting it. I remember when I saw the post on facebook about it I thought, “I LOVE them!!! What a great idea!! Too bad I don’t write. I’d like to go to that.” Because I don’t feel like a writer. Not me. I can’t write. You see, I have a brain that tells me that everything I try to do isn’t enough. That I should be better. I watch you do something and it’s significant. YOU can write. YOU can cook. YOU can paint. YOU can do yoga. And the same eye trained on myself says “You Can’t.”

In a conversation with a friend recently, it was explained to me that oftentimes the mere act of doing something qualifies you as someone who does that thing. Go ahead, read it again. I tried a bunch of different ways to word it, and that’s all I’ve got. Example: If you go to the gym, you are someone who goes to gym. If you vote, you are a voter. If you paint, you are a painter. If you murder someone… not a good example. So, the simple fact that I have written – I have put pen to paper or fingers to keys and put down my thoughts – makes me a writer. So my argument (as is usually so) is invalid.

I am a writer.

A few weeks ago, my dear friend posted about why she writes and she asked me to do the same. I was surprised and honored that she would want to hear my thoughts. See paragraph one - *I’m not a writer.* Except that I am.

I felt pressured to write something really profound and powerful. You see, all the people she asked are REAL bloggers. They take these beautiful words and send them out into the universe and they touch people’s lives. And she did ask them. But she also asked me.

Why do I write?

I write because sometimes the words in my head pound like a drum until I let them out.

I write because it feels good when someone thanks me for my courage and for my words.

I write because pain shared is pain lessened.

I write because joy shared is joy multiplied.

I write because, like each of us, due to my experience I am uniquely qualified to carry a message of hope to someone.

I write because sometimes I get very angry and the words want to explode from my chest and putting them down eases the fire in me.

I write because every now and then, I see myself as funny and charming.

I write because it counters the voice in my head that tells me that since I have a GED and no college diploma, that I’m not intelligent.

I write because I have something to say.

I write because I want to celebrate something with you.

I write because sometimes my higher power and your higher power conspire together to help us both.

I write because when I get the nudge, I have an obligation to act. Many different pieces had to fall into place to ensure I was able to get to where I am today. Who am I to decide that what I’m being led to say isn’t worthy?

I write because sometimes I like to hear myself talk.

I write because maybe, just maybe, my experience will resonate with you.

I write because when I hear you share openly and vulnerably, it gives me courage. Your words can and do help me so much. I want to pay that forward.

I write because fear is very tall and it’s very wide – like a giant wall. When I look at it, it fills the whole horizon. But fear isn’t very deep. If I try, I can push right through it. Someone had to teach me that. What if you never hear that message because I’m too afraid to say it? And how else can I prove to you the truth in those words than to push through myself?

I write because sometimes the words get stuck in my brain like a song that won’t go away.

I write because I want you to like me.

I write because my whole life I’ve never been able to practice authenticity. I needed you so much that I sold myself to be the one I thought you needed me to be. I needed you to stay and love me. I have found authenticity through vulnerability. My greatest expression of that vulnerability is through telling you the truth, even when it isn’t pretty. Even when you may not like it. Even when I’m afraid. Even when it might mean I’ll lose you. Through that, I have found me AND I have found you.

I write because I’ve found myself surrounded by amazing women who love and support me. These women encourage me to be the best me that I can be. These women want to hear what I have to say. These women look at me and see me as enough, even when I can’t do that for myself. Through their eyes, I’ve begun to see a woman worthy of respect. Someone who is funny and charming and kind. Someone who is worth loving. So, I write. For them. And for me.