A Curiousity

The Worth of a Rapist has been posted for just over 12 hours. Already I've received over 50 Facebook comments, direct messages, tweets, and private emails to the effect of "What's wrong with you? Why are you defending a rapist? Daddy issues much?" I think you missed my point.

It's curious. It's fascinating. I'm glad you're thinking deeply about this. And I want to clarify.

The post has its roots stretching back several years ago. I was reflecting on and exploring of the nature of humanity and the inherent worth of all people. This work was actually not attached to my rapist in the least. As I was pondering, I kept running up against the 'well what about?' question. What about Hitler? What about Stalin? What about Trump (yeah, back then, already thinking about Trump.) Eventually I thought to myself - who has wronged me the most? Who would be the hardest for me, in my being, to find worth in? And if I can find some bit of worth there, will that suffice to wrap up the argument to myself?

Ex-dad then became the archetypal 'monstrous evil' in my exploration, essentially the 'can I find a worth in him? Because if so, then I can find a worth in anyone.'

This as opposed to a desire to justify his actions, redeem him, or anything even remotely related. Never will I defend his actions. Not even a bit. Nope, not an issue of needing to 'reconcile' or 'justify.' Although writing last night's post took a lot out of me and was deeply emotional, I've not dwelt on ex-dad for quite some time. He's functionally dead in my life. And yet, somehow, my musings on human worth and inherent goodness were taken as otherwise.

I suppose that's the controversial part though.

The Worth of a Rapist

Trigger warning - this post is a wee heavy (and not the tasty kind). I will be speaking in detail about heinous crimes committed against humanity, living creatures, and myself. If you've got small kids looking over your shoulder or just don't really want to consider the worth of a rapist... perhaps you'd best skip this one.

For those of you who need to pass on this one, I think this image sums it up best without the trigger-potential.

Hurt people hurt people... damn that's deep.

Several Months in Several Lines

It's been a while, but I'm eager to get back to this. Writing about my experiences, hearing from some of you... well... it's a big piece of self-care that I've been neglecting and that, for entirely selfish reasons, I'm eager to re-integrate into my life.

That said, a shit-ton has happened since my last post. I don't have the energy or the time to fully document it all right now, so I'm going to keep it to bullets. HOWEVER, I do hope to elaborate on a few of these at a later date.

So let's see... what's been happening?

1. I was a contestant on Who Wants to be a Millionaire? Yep, that's right. Now the real question, can you pick me out from the 2016-2017 contestants? Here's a hint... I wasn't a celebrity guest.
   What's that? How did I do? I can't tell you that, it might spoil the fun (but don't worry, I'll update on that after this season ends!)
   
   
   
   
   
2. I was a contestant on NPR's Wait Wait Don't Tell Me and now Carl Kassel's voice is enshrined in my voicemail.
   
   
   
   
   
3. I sold the farm, sold the goats, lost the ability to grow my own food, and moved to a rental in town. The short version is that The Socialist has one end of the house and I have the other with Snugglet in the middle... It's painful, it actually pretty much sucks - we'd expected to be living apart by now and The Socialist is starting to feel somewhat resentful of my continued presence. It's hard to blame her, but until we have finances nailed down (which is taking a long time due to Snugglet's special needs) it's not a good idea to pay 2 rents.
   
   

   

   Goodbye girls! I'll miss you!

   
   

   
   
4. Little Smye is no longer. Little Smye is now Snugglet. I was wrong, I have a daughter, not a son.
5. I started dating The Botanist. She's pretty damn awesome. And also slightly woo. I love it! More on her to come... of that you can be sure.
6. I met Giada!
7. The protection order I have against my childhood abusers was violated (I'll say allegedly, so as to avoid any possible Libel suit).
8. I spent far too long going back and forth with the prosecuting and defense attorneys on this... but we'll see where it goes. The jury trial is coming up.
9. I lived out of a motel for 10 nights, against my will. I learned how much I hate living in a sleezy motel... and how much I love living in a space that's entirely 'mine.'
10. I secured an attorney to help with the finalizing of the divorce (it's entirely non-contested/amicable... but we each want to have someone to at least look at it).
11. I went to 5 different conferences - I love to learn but I'm exhausted.
12. We got mental healthcare for students at work. WOOT!
13. I went to my first Metal Festival... Disturbed was excellent.
14. I found 7 new species of mushroom.
    
    

    

    1/4 of the 12 lb beast I found... YUM

    
    
15. I made a few new friends.
16. I went to my first Friendsgiving and had the best Thanksgiving I've had in a long long time.
17. I stopped sleepwalking altogether.
18. I started on my collection of short stories (we'll see if they ever go anywhere).
19. I got a new contract and title change at work.
20. I started painting. That's why I've gone so long without blogging... all of the time I'd spent blogging has been spent painting.
    
    
    
    
    

    

    The tea and chutney were added after the first photo

    
    
21. And I got back to GayWifeConfusingLife... what a few months it's been!

Complications After Birth – Part 2

My child is three years old now. It’s been a long, sleep deprived and often agony-filled journey. But it’s also been full of joys. Whether the delight on my child’s face when picking wild berries, the reveling when a favorite poem is read, or the simply joy of arranging dozens of blocks by color, shape, and size – my little one can bring light wherever she goes.

She. He. Him. Her. That’s where our next complication came up.

At 18 months old, my little one asked to wear dresses and skirts like mama. “Sure,” we said. “No problem.” And we meant it. We’ve worked very hard to remain gender-neutral for the most part in our home. There are so many positive aspects to traditional masculinity and femininity, but our society at large has also twisted and perverted so many of those norms and we were keen to have our child express him or herself however she deemed fit, regardless of whether society at large would tell her that’s ‘boy stuff’ or ‘girl stuff.’ So dresses it was. We knew our child struggled with sensory processing disorder and assumed that, perhaps, pants/leggings were just too darned intense of a sensation.

At 22 months old, our little one started asking to be referred to as names other than the one we’d bestowed. Often these were the names of close family friends such as Kelly, Hailey, or Francine. Sweet! How many children with autism have that kind of imagination at that age? Or at any age for that matter… ABA must really be doing it’s work. Right?

At 2 years old, we discussed that maybe our little one wouldn’t end up as heteronormative as we’d assumed. Again, no problem. We love our child, the family who will assume custody in the event of a tragic accident are a gay couple, and the impetus for each of us in our careers is to pursue social justice. Heck, my ex and best friend realized she was gay 6 years into our marriage. It’s not a big deal. What better family, what better region of the country to be other than a heteronormative, white, cis-gendered male of means, right?

But, no, I said. I don’t want my child to be other than the proverbial, fictitious norm. Because I know how cruel society can be. I grew up a bigot, I’ve lived among them, I’ve been one of them. I know the hatred and vitriol awaiting those outside of hegemony, disguised as love and righteousness. Well, 2 is WAY too young to tell, right?

The next several months passed without much of note in the gender arena. The kiddo wore mostly dresses and skirts in hues of purple and seemed largely happy. When the cashier would say ‘my, what a beautiful little girl’ and I’d correct them, my beloved would whimper or cry, but she’d always done that when strangers spoke to her. Clearly she just didn’t want to talk to strangers. I’d ask if she wanted to talk to the person and I’d receive an emphatic “NO THANK YOU! You do it for me papa.” Clearly it was about the stranger-conversation. I honestly didn’t think any more of it.

Then, 3 months before her 3^rd birthday, she refused to go by her given name, insisting it was the wrong name. She also asked to go by ‘she’ and ‘her,’ insisting that she was only a boy on the changing table. Again, we didn’t think much of it. Who cares what pronoun you use?

How on earth could we have been so blind?

2 months before turning 3, my child started sobbing hysterically when, after making a very proper request for grapes I replied, “I’m so proud of you for being so polite, my son.” Several hours later, once calm enough to speak – though far from consoled, my child gasped through sobs and tears, “Papa, why does everyone think I’m a boy? I’m not your son, I’m your daughter. I’m a girl papa, I’ve ALWAYS been a girl. And you always tell everyone I’m a boy.” This went on for some time, with my precious, my diamond, my beloved pouring out her heart to me, sharing her agony, her sense of never being truly known, her hatred of being perceived as someone she was not. She listed dozens of people who’ve called her ‘he’ or insisted she was a boy. She accused me, rightly, of contradicting the few people in her community who assumed she was a girl, despite the fact that she IS, in fact, a girl. And she asked me, “Papa, why is it that even strangers know I’m a girl, but that you and mama, my parents, don’t understand?”

My soul rent asunder. My darling, my child, my love, heart of my heart, blood of my blood, my baby… I am sorry. Forgive me. Forgive me. I’m sorry. You have been suffering in silence for how long? No, not in silence. You told me, you’ve insisted in your own small – no, not small, very large and very plain – ways that I was wrong. You’ve given me every opportunity, every clue that you might not be a boy. That you were not a boy. That you were a girl. That you’ve known for years. That it hurt you when I insisted otherwise. And I was so scared for you, for your future, for the cruelty of the world we live in, from the likes of Westboro to the simple misunderstandings of your fellow toddlers… so afraid and desperate to spare you suffering… so afraid to see you hurt that I perpetrated my own micro-hate crimes upon you. From daily micro-aggressions to outright insistence of the wrong gender. I’ve become the source of our agony, your isolation and sense of being, in your own words, an ‘outcast within our family.’ Forgive me my child. Papa was wrong. Mama was wrong. I am sorry. Forgive us. We will do better.

“Papa,” she asks me every morning. “Papa, why did you think I was a boy? Why did you call me Little Smye when that’s not my name?” S*#%. “Papa was wrong honey, I am sorry. I did think you were a boy, and I was wrong. But you told me you are a girl and now I know. You are my daughter, and I am so glad to know that you are a girl. Sometimes I might make a mistake and say ‘he’ or use the name I thought was yours, but I’m working on it.”

A few weeks later she asked for a family meeting. The Socialist, our daughter and I sat down at the kitchen able to decide on her name. “I want to go by Phutup,” she insists. “Well kiddo… that’s not usually a name. Mama and I talked about it, and usually parents who are right about whether their child is a girl or boy get to choose the child’s name. We were wrong, so we want you to help us decide on your name, but Phutup is usually not a name. Are you sure you want that for your name?” “I dunno, I just like how it sounds.”

PHEW!

“Okay little girl, how about Little Smyette? That’s the girl version of Little Smye and will be easier for your friends and family to get used to.”

“NO! That is not my name, I hate it!”

“Well,” The Socialist follows up. “How about Snugglet? If we had known you were a girl when you were born, that’s the name we could have given you.”

“Oooooh… Mama, Papa, you found my name! My name is Snugglet! I love it.” And then, for the first time in her life, she began to truly weep. No screaming, no sobs, no violent kicking, thrashing and biting… but weeping. “Papa, I’m crying for happiness. What is this?” Needless to say, The Socialist and I were quick to join her.

It’s been rough, coming out – again – as a family to friends and family. Deciding who to tell and when. How much of this story is hers to tell when she wants? How much is our family’s? How do we respond with kindness and compassion when hatred rears its ugly head – not only to Snugglet but to the hater as well? How do we know whether to refer to her as a girl vs a trans-girl and to whom? How can we maintain our composure when a loved one spits in our faces and insists ‘she’s too young to even have a concept of trans,’ we ‘made her this way,’ ‘did she really try living as a boy to make sure?’ or that we’re guilty of child abuse by making her live as a girl? What can we say when even our closest relatives insist it’s just because The Socialist is gay?

Answer: By doing our best and arming ourselves with evidence.

1)    Snugglet absolutely knows she’s a girl – most kids have a gender identity solidly developed sometime between the ages of 2 & 3 and many trans people who come out later in life report having tried to tell someone at a younger age but being told “GET BACK INSIDE! You’re a girl and you MUST have long hair! You’re a boy GD-it! What’s wrong with you?” They shame spiraled, they self-loathed, and the remained closeted in silence. Or else they insisted and were met with rejection and spite. Or, for a very few, they were accepted and grew up well-adjusted. This is our dream for Snugglet. And no, she’s not aware of the concept of being trans or LGBTIQ… but she absolutely knows she’s a girl with a penis.

2)    Nope. You can’t make a person trans. Anymore than you can make a person cis. Or straight. Or gay. Or bi. Wait, are you saying that your own sexual identity is maleable enough that someone could make you gay? Could, without surgery, make you a man/woman/other? Wow…

3)    Are YOU sure you’re cis? Have you tried living as the other gender for a year or two, just to be sure? I mean… c’mon.

4)    How is allowing my child to be who she is at the core of her being, provided she harms no one else, is worse than forcing my child to adopt a persona counter to her very soul? Seems to me very much akin to forcing a boy to wear only girl’s clothes and go by a girl’s name, even when he’s very much a boy. Or forcing a girl to pretend she’s a boy, even when she’s not. How on earth is allowing my girl to be a girl more cruel than forcing her to be a boy?

5)    Beyond that, if this isn’t enough for you, I highly suggest you read some peer-reviewed journals on the topic. Or else get a good therapist. Or, if you want to believe I’m evil and my child is an abomination… I suppose your right to hate has the same constitutional protections as my right to love, so go ahead. Just keep those thoughts to yourself. Just as you have the right to raise your child to believe transgenderedness is wrong, I have a right to raise my child how I will, with what I believe to be love and acceptance. Thank you.

I still slip up, I still call her by her old name instead of her new name. And she is so generous, so gracious, in a way no child – especially no preschooler – should ever have to be: “It’s okay Papa. I know it will take you some practice and I know you’re trying. Thank you Papa for catching yourself and changing to my real name.” Daily my heart breaks as I’m consumed with shame for the suffering I’ve caused the one human on earth who most deserves my unbridled devotion, respect, and full recognition of who she is.

I’m still afraid. I still dread having the conversation about why this or that adult did this or that hateful thing. But I am so damn proud of my child. My daughter. My beautiful beautiful little girl. I love you Snugglet, thank you for having the courage to teach me who you really are. Perhaps I can thank, at least in part, your wonderful autistic brain for helping give you a voice amidst the silencing of our world. 

I love you.

Complications After Birth - Part 1

From Birth to Transition – Part 1

June, 2013, 2 am inside the post office box that The Socialist and I called our bedroom. A groan, a push, a gasp and I’ve caught Little Smye in the birthing tub. The midwife smiles as I fumble my child into my arms, hand the wriggling lithe bundle to The Socialist and cut the cord. “A son,” I cry. “We have a little boy!” I’d never in my life felt such joy or sense of completeness and grounding. Little did I know how much greater joy, sorrow, fear, despair, and elation was to follow.

We knew something was wrong almost immediately. They say that shortly after a child is born, there’s a 4-6-hour period where the newborn sleeps. This was not the case for Little Smye. Our child wailed from the first moment Earth-side until 48 hours after birth. We reached out, we sought help, we were told Little Smye would ‘grow out of it.’

Then Little Smye couldn’t nurse. Every sip of breastmilk led to horrific pain for The Socialist as our child clamped down fiercely and heart-rending choking and gasping as every last drop was aspirated. Five months of finger-feeding pumped milk at about an ounce every 2 hours, three frenotomies, and far too many sleepless nights followed. We reached out again, our child was far too unhappy to be really and truly okay. This was more than a tongue tie and an inability to swallow liquids, we were sure. “Don’t worry,” they chided. “You have a strong boy there; he’ll grow out of it.”

At seven months our seventeenth nanny for Little Smye quit after only 2 hours on the job. We were in the office, each working from home during that ‘trial day’ when we heard a second cry join Little Smye’s. When we went out into the living room, we found our child thrashing on the floor and the nanny – a woman who’d only hours before described herself as ‘able to handle anything, I was in Special Education for 20 years’ – curled in a fetal position crying on our couch, back to our baby. “It’s too much,” she whimpered. “Nothing can sooth your child. I can’t take it, I’m a failure.” Then she ran out of our home. It was like something out of a caricature of a ‘nightmare nannying job’ movie. One caregiver described Little Smye as Dennis the Menace meets Problem Child meets The Omen… with a little of Jigsaw’s cruelty thrown into the mix. Except that our child was only seven months old.

At eight months we turned a corner. Little Smye was nursing heartily and able to drink water if it was thickened with xanthan gum… but still was screaming for 7-8 hours solid daily and sleeping fewer than 5 out of every 24 hours. Any small change in the environment, from the central air kicking on to a car driving past to a cloud passing in front of the sun, to staring dinner 3 minutes before or after the usual time would trigger a violent, spasmodic meltdown. Little Smye still couldn’t sit up or even roll over yet. Something was wrong. “No, you’re fine,” they assured us. “Perhaps you just need some remedial parenting classes.”

At twelve months we finally found a doctor willing to give our child more than a perfunctory once-over. I’ll call him Dr. D.

We were floored. Our child could now sit, roll, and was even speaking in short sentences. One day our kid was mute, a week later I heard “Papa, milk please.” Why was this doctor willing to see us with the gains we’d made? Little Smye was also finally willing to sleep without being tightly held in my arms, I was getting more than 2-hours of sleep in a row – just the night before our appointment I’d managed 3.5 – things were perfect, no complaints. Right?

The morning of the appointment, I called a friend I’d met in birth class to double check whether it was worth wasting this doctor’s time. I described the leaps and bound of improvements we’d seen in Little Smye, our improved quality of life, the fact that I could once again think in multiple complete sentences even if I sometimes had difficulty in speaking them. Things are great! “Um, Smye… none of that is normal. Not even a little. Your child shouldn’t be using words like ‘probably’ yet and you should absolutely be getting more sleep than that. Something is very wrong. Why haven’t you taken your kiddo to specialist before this?” We had. Twenty-four specialists had told us that ‘Little Smye will grow out of it, your child is too young for this to be significant in any way.’ Thank goodness for Dr. D.

We met Dr. D. in his office. “Hello,” he greeted each of us, even Little Smye. My child whimpered and shied away. “Little Smye doesn’t do well with new people,” The Socialist explained. “In fact, if you’re not careful, Little Smye will identify you as someone not to be trusted and… well… we still can’t go through the line at Safeway with the cashier who touched Little Smye’s cheek when Little Smye was 2 months-old.” It was true, even at three years old now, Little Smye recounts the horrors of “The lady with blue hair who touched me when I didn’t want to be touched but couldn’t say no because I didn’t have words yet,” before melting into a puddle of re-traumatization.

Dr. D. smiled, “No problem. I completely understand.” Dr. D. then proceeded to ask us a number of pointed questions; observe Little Smye stare, rarely even blinking, at a piece of yarn blowing in the breeze of a desk fan for over an hour; note the total, violent meltdown when a nurse walked by the door unexpectedly; and offer solace in the form of empathy and validation.

“I’m making a diagnosis of Autism. You’ve been to how many specialists? This is among the most cut and dried instances I’ve seen in decades. I suppose it’s just that your son is so young… they don’t want to over pathologize. But in all seriousness? There is zero doubt in my mind on this one.”

Autism. Finally, a diagnosis. It was the one we’d expected; the one we’d not dared to utter to any healthcare professional for fear they’d see us as “those Munchausen-by-proxy parents” rather than taking us seriously; the one that brought total validation and relief. Finally, someone the world would respect and listen to had given us an explanation for why our child was suffering so deeply. Or… part of one anyway.

What followed were countless visits to occupational therapists, psychotherapists, speech pathologists, autism clinics, birth-to-three services, schools, and several other professionals I cannot recall.

By 18-months, we had in-home ABA therapy, weekly OT, supports from all over the map and were up to 4-6 hours of sleep each night. We also had a child with an active vocabulary of 5000 words and the emotional maturity of a 3-month-old according to one expert. We’d swapped Little Smye from wearing pants and shirts to primarily dresses and skirts at her request and our child seemed far happier. It seemed the sensory aspect of autism was preventing our kiddo from wearing anything tight on the legs. We had no problem with this whatsoever, the clothes don’t make the kid and hey, if you’re happy, I’m happy.

It seemed we’d ‘arrived.’ And yet still, our beloved diamond still was dreadfully unhappy. Whenever the cashier at the feed store would remark “what a handsome young man you have there,’ my child would devolve into a multi-hour scream-fest of the sort that makes your eardrums ring and all you hear is ‘wuhwumwuhwumwuhwum’ rather than the screams themselves. You know the kind of pitch and volume I’m talking about.

It wasn’t until she was nearly three that we finally discovered the next piece of Little Smye’s very complicated puzzle.

A big shift

As I've previously shared, since The Socialist came out, I've dealt with some symptoms of PTSD and sleep disorders. Therapy is great, but it doesn't 'fix' anything. If only I could take the edge off, you know? Something to pull me from despair into just sadness. Well, we've got it!

 

 

About 6 months ago I had a genetic screening done to see, based on my genotype, which medications would likely yield the best results with the fewest side effects. Essentially the top 100 drugs are grouped into:

 

Green: high likelihood of desired effects with minimal side effects

Yellow: high likelihood of desired effects with some side effects

Red: moderate likelihood of desired effects with a high likelihood of side effects

DO NOT: self-explanatory


5 months ago I received the report. my green list was pretty big. Yellow had several. Red & black, combined, had about 20. Not bad.

4 months ago I finished my research and consultation with my Dr. and decided on a popular SNRI to start with.

3 months ago magic happened:

• My relationship with little Smye blossomed - from something I thought was pretty great to absolutely heavenly.
• My depression lightened - it's still there, but it's no longer black, just slightly grey.
• My anxiety shifted. I'm still anxious, but when something bad happens, I am anxious and that's it. I no longer spin-up to the point of having made the 27 logical steps to how this will lead me to being dead in a ditch within a year.
• My tremor disappeared.
• My sleep improved - I actually haven't sleepwalked since the day I started.
• My nightmares went from every night to only once a month.
• My dreams are often good.

There's a lot of stigma around mental health and medication, so I've thought long and hard about whether and how to write this. But at the end of the day - yes, medication is a crutch. Just as a crutch is a crutch for a broken leg - your leg is still broken and a crutch helps you heal. Here my neurobiology is changes from a childhood of abuse and then a traumatic event, of course I need some aid. So I will just put it out there.

And at this point comes the PSA: Get therapy. Yes, you. The healthy, super awesome, no problems, sunshine and daisies reader out there. Do it. Here's why:
Mental health and somatic health are incredibly blurred: in short - mental health parity exists for a reason. We get an annual physical, why not an annual mental health screening? You're healthy? Great! Stay healthy. Let's catch any potential yellow flags while they're still yellow rather than waiting until they've become red flags.

Don't do this...

Selling The Farm

What was that saying my middle school teachers always used? The only constant in life is change?

If that's the case, then why does change hurt so badly? Why is it something so incredibly frightening? And how on earth is it possible to be at once in a place of such horror and hope?

Suffice it to say, a change has come and we're selling the farm! More changes are afoot soon, one of the biggest will be coming soon, so stay tuned.

For those in the PNW interested in a hobby farm not an hour from Seattle, check out our listing here. 1770 sq ft on one acre with a large greenhouse, workshop, goat barn, and chicken house.



We're having an open house on Sunday from 1-4 if you're interested.

A Change is Gonna Come

...And there's not a darned thing I can do about it.

The Socialist continues to grow. She continues to change. She continues individualize and separate her identity. I am so proud of her. I hurt so much.

Recently we realized that we both want so badly to keep our home, but neither of us believes it would be sustainable to continue sharing a living space. Yet we can't afford to build an addition or a second dwelling on the property.

Then one of The Socialist's good friends came up with what seemed the perfect solution - add about eight feet of interior wall and convert the house to a duplex.  I feel no sense of loss at 'losing' access to The Socialist, only the dread of losing the casual interactions with Little Smye on her parenting nights and the sense of 'hey now, this is MY house, why don't I get to keep it?" But realistically, I'll still share a roof with my son, he's a 20 foot walk and a door knock away, and really... it gets us both what we want.

Perfect right? If only.

As Nobel Laureate Andre Gide once said, “Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.” As much as I loathe it... I think it's time to head out to sea and hope the weather holds...

(more after the jump)

 

Last week we had a real estate agent friend out to advise us on how to go about converting the house to a duplex by adding a central interior wall (cost estimate, impact on resale, etc etc). Long story short, her advice was DO NOT DO IT! We (apparently) have somewhere between $200k and $250k in equity in the house (hooray for buying in late 2011 and it being an election year approaching summer) and, in her work over the last 30 years, she's helped a number of clients (which we are not) through similar divorces (one spouse realizes they are gay and it's amicable) and only once has living on the same property  survived beyond the acquisition of a new partner. In all the others, even those who'd been best of friends since childhood, things eventually turned ugly. Not to mention the fact that The Socialist has made it clear she wants a home entirely to herself within the next 5 years.

 

Additionally, the preschools and elementary schools that provide appropriate services for Little Smye are all out of the district we live in now. Her advice is: Sell the house this summer, use the profits to 1) give The Socialist a large chunk of $ to survive on while she sets up her practice/downpayment on a small house for her/Little Smye 2) give myself a smaller chunk (only $80k) to completely zero out all student loans 3) reduce my spousal support by way of the larger share of profits going to The Socialist at the outset 4) provide myself a larger portion of his income to be able to rent for a short while near to work and build a stockpile to buy again when the market next drops 5) provide Little Smye a stable, single move, landing in a near-forever home. 

 

It's utterly heartbreaking, but admittedly seems to be the most reasonable solution. I don't want to give up my home, but I can't afford to support my own mortgage, a household for The Socialist once she moves out, AND make my student loan payments. And if The Socialist is going to move Westward towards better schools for Little Smye , I want to be nearby.

 

My biggest anxiety (other than losing my wife [oh wait, that's already done] and not living with my son most of the time [in his best interest based on the careers of his parents]) is the financial aspect of all of this. The Socialist took a low paying job and I acquired $80k in student loans in order to maximize our family's long-term earning potential, but with the divorce it leaves us both effectively screwed... except that we've got such equity in the house that we can effectively solve both problems (giving her enough of a cushion to live off of until she finishes her licensure and eliminating all of my student debt).

 

We've not made any decisions at this point, but it's looking like we'll likely aim for a deal to be reached end-of-spring with closing in mid summer (I have a full month off this summer, which would allow for crashing on The Socialist's couch while I hunt for a new home once we have her securely placed). We'll also likely stay married until after the house is sold as there are no capital gains taxes on up to $500k if we're married, but $250k if we're divorced. We'll then see about doing one of those 'self-guided divorce' deals for $800 rather than the $8-20k attorney-guided divorces - we'll effectively have no further assets or debts to divvy up.

 

I'll be meeting with our former realtor (who helped us buy the house) in three days, and we'll go from there.

In brief, I'm terrified, I'm reluctant, I'm suffering. But I'm also hopeful. Perhaps, just maybe, I'll find land again, or at least a beautiful sea.

Dazed, confused, and narcoleptic

Recently I've veered away from discussion of my own internal processes towards a synopsis of my actions and pursuit of new relationships. And although I will absolutely keep you all updated on Trivia night, boardgames, mushroom cultivation, dating, etc., I want to take a moment to reflect on and hate some of the larger impacts this whole endeavor is having on my person.

Pros: I've had the opportunity to connect more with beloved friends. I've also had the chance to focus on celebrating and learning me, delving more deeply into my passions and interests. It turns out that having 3 evenings each week to dedicate to myself is allowing me  lot of growth, reflection, questioning, and general health.

Cons: I've developed a tremor, depression, significant anxiety, have started sleepwalking, and engaging in what my GP describes as "narcolepsy with automatic behavior." That's fun. Or not.

Let me try to explain by way of example.

As you all know by now, The Socialist moved to her own side of the house several months ago - we're now living truly as housemates and coparents. When Little Smye asked her if we're married, the answer was 'no.'

Anyway, one night about a month ago, The Socialist was getting home late from a hospice choir she sings in and heard strange sounds coming from the bathroom. She knocked - no answer. She knocked again and called to me "Smye, are you alright in there?" No answer.

Concerned, she opened the door to find me standing on the bathroom counter. Urinating. Into the bathrub. Across the walk way.

"Um, Smye. What are you doing?"

*Mumble mumble mumble*

"No really, Smye, I'm sure there's a reason, why are you peeing in the tub?"

"I've been elected to City Council. This is tradition good sir. I'm merely following in the footsteps of my forebears."

"What?"
"Sir, you mustn't interfere. This is a rite of passage into city government."

...

I have no recollection of this whatsoever. But she's filmed other weird instances of late-night odd behavior. And to those asking - nope. No sleeping pills, alcohol, or other mind altering substances were involved. Just stress, trauma, and sleep deprivation coupled with narcolepsy. Good times.

On the bright side, The Socialist was kind enough to guide me back to bed and gently inform me the next morning of my curious behavior. On the brighter side, even when sleepwalking I apparently have good aim and so had very little mess to clean up the next day.

On the brightest side - modern medicine is amazing and my GP and I are pursuing ways to correct my hynogogic arrests while falling asleep that lead to this erratic fugue-like state.

More to come...

Updates 2.0

The Actress is back. She's a delightful human who I thoroughly enjoy spending time with. She's also committed (for now) to at least 2 years without a romance and it's utterly delightful to have no pressure from her as well, she's an excellent human, but I'd not want to pursue further at this point - if forced to pick a desert-island companion today, yep, she'd be in the running... but I'm very grateful for her current role and not remotely eager to change that. It's lovely to have another friend in my life.

Lastly, tomorrow The Gourmand (my AllRecipes friend) and I will be making hundreds of sushi (maki, nigiri, gunkan, and sashimi) in a dry run of a party she's catering and some recipes I'll be submitting to AR. Should be a good time.

Update 4/3/16: A few have asked about my long term goals with The Actress, suggesting that either I ought to actively pursue romance and quit 'beating around the bush' or else 'stay the hell away.' Rather than answering to each email as it comes, I thought I'd just answer here. So, what are my long term goals with The Actress? I have none, other than to keep her influence in my life as someone I value and respect. Am I pursuing or even hoping for romance? Nope. Am I dead set against it? Nope. And for now, that's plenty.

Breakup Broken

It's been 1 day since the breakup.

It went... as to the quality of the going - I'm not sure how to measure it. This is my first dating relationship and my first breakup ever (at 27). There were a lot of tears on both ends, she kept asking "what could I have done differently? But don't worry, I won't try to change myself for you" and I kept choosing not to go there - I trust her intent. I have complete and total faith that she 100% means what she says.


But when The Socialist came out and asked for a divorce, I  did the same thing. And so I don't trust that she wouldn't carry my potential words around with her as a 'recipe' for 'fixing' herself to haunt her when jerkbrain rears it's ugly head.

She insists she wants to be besties  - so do I - but I think insisting on a break for a bit first so we're starting from as close to scratch as possible and so she can let the emotional dust settle a bit and make an authentic, fully informed decision as to how she wants to move forward rather than just the "DONT LEAVE, I'LL DO ANYTHING" unconcious bargaining I worry about.

The Map is Closed

Apologies all, for the lengthy absence. Suffice it to say a lot has been going on.

1 - I got picked up by AllRecipes as an AllRecipes AllStar Brand Ambassador - WOOT WOOT!

2 - I'm redesigning alternative education for an entire school district which - although rewarding - is utterly exhausting and a huge timesuck.

3 - The Cartographer has taken up nearly all of my restful moments - in ways both good (99%) and bad (1%).

4 - The Cartographer and I broke up.

Let's elaborate, shall we?

The Cartographer - A Brief Introduction

Well, the Actress seems to have ghosted entirely (or is legitimately seeking her own therapy/doing her own work, in which case, well done Actess, I can't wait to reconnect - be it as friends or more - when you're ready). 

 

On the other hand, The Cartographer has now emerged... I sent her a message in December. She was out of town. She replied the day The Actress said 'farewell.' We met for drinks and trivia. I was at ease. I was relaxed. I enjoyed her company. Her mind is beautiful. She is delightful. She is at least as intelligent as I am. I'm smitten. We've been seeing one another for a few weeks now. On Wednesday she asked me, "Smye, can I call you my boyfriend?" Hell yes! I guess I'm dating now. I couldn't be more pleased. More on her to come soon.

 

The Socialist has started pseudo-dating (though she doesn't use that term just yet) and I'm so excited for her! She also met The Cartographer last week and they seem to get on quite well thus far. They'll not meet again for some time, The Cartographer just wanted to verify my story before we started dating. I'm so pleased she's comfortable stating her needs.

 

Lastly - The Cartographer made my therapist cry, in a good way. This is going to be fun!

The Actress on Hold

This morning I woke up to a new text from The Actress - one that I was both surprised and gratified to read:

"Hi Smye,

Sorry for not responding to your message right away.  I really appreciate your understanding and for being so supportive of my need to take a step back. Honestly, I just got to a place last week where I realized my emotions are still just not sorted through properly, and that I’ve been seeking distraction from dealing with some of the hard things that I need to sit with and deal with over a period of time.

I think maybe for the moment I’d like to go radio silent to get some space and take stock of things, but I am not at all opposed to being friends and picking up getting to know each other when some time has passed and I feel like I’m in a better spot to do that. Would that be okay? I really do enjoy spending time with you, too.

So… I guess I’ll be in touch, then? And until then I hope all things for you go well, and your school and with Atticus and otherwise, and I look forward to catching up again before too long. :)

The Actress"

I must say, as disappointed as I still am to have had this relationship cut short (for the time being at least), I'm so gratified to have been smitten with someone so authentic and transparent in her own practice at life. Someone who's self-aware and willing to do her own work... yep, I definitely know that's the kind of person I need in a partner, the kind of person I need in a friend, and, HOORAY, the kind of person who I feel 'sparkly' towards. I hadn't been sure if that's the kind of person I'd find most attractive when I started this journey and - though it's far from over - I'm relieved that my first post-Mrs.-Smye crush is one of these people.

I certainly hope she reaches out once she's done her own work in this area, not prior, but not never. And if I never hear from her again, I'll be disappointed but fine and choose to trust that she's just doing what's in her best interest, working to be thankful she's caring for herself.

What, I presume, is our last message for quite a while follows:

"Good afternoon Actress,

Radio silence it is. Congratulations on your realization and determination to keep yourself healthy.

I look forward to reconnecting at some point, but please take as long as you need. And if I never her back from you, sure I'll be disappointed but will not resent you, instead trusting that it's in your best interest.

Take care, I wish you the best, and thank you for the time together we've had thus far. You have my profound respect.

Smye"

OKCupid 7

Getting ready for Date #3 with the woman from OKCupid 6. I'll call her The Actress, she should have a name but also have her privacy protected.

Very excited.

Like her a lot.

Going to continue to get to know one another, I've got a number of questions.

She texts, hooray!

What's it say? (edited to protect identities, etc.)

"Hey Smye,

So.. I think I need to cancel our get together next Sunday. I’ve decided that I need to pull back from OkCupid and further dates for now. unsure emoticon I had a couple other dates last week that got emotionally intense, which was very confusing and somewhat upsetting for me since I feel like I’m still very early in the process. I’ve been thinking about it for the last few days and I believe it would be a good idea for me to take a step back and reassess what exactly it is I’m looking for.

I hope you can understand, and I am sorry- I’ve really, truly enjoyed the couple dates we’ve had and was looking forward to the next one, but I think ultimately I’m just not in a very solid place to be dating right now, and that’s not a good way to step into dating. I believe that when the foundation isn’t healthy, someone will likely eventually end up getting hurt because old baggage will creep in and do damage to any new relationship. I’m seeing some things in myself that definitely need to be sorted out before I get to that healthy place.

If you’re open to me contacting you sometime in the not-so-distant future when I feel like I’m on more solid footing, I would love to keep that possibility open, but if not I will of course respect that as well. I’ve enjoyed getting to know you as much as I have so far, and I feel regretful that the timing just isn’t right right now to continue to do so.

Thanks, Actress"

Damn. And good on you!

Of course, though, I like her. I respect her and appreciate her honestly and authenticity. And, even if we never date (though, the possibility still exists!), I want to be her friend. So, my response is as follows:

"Hi Actress, 

 

Thank you for your message. I so appreciate your willingness to be vulnerable and authentic in your process and will absolutely respect your needs here. I admire your commitment to self care and making sure you remain healthy through this process.

To be certain, I'm disappointed. I like you a great deal  and am hopeful for the opportunity to continue to get to know you. I understand entirely needing to be in a healthy, independent place prior to diving into a relationship ill-equipped. I wish you the best in getting yourself into a place that you're ready and interested in pursuing a relationship. 

 

In the meantime, if it's not a poor choice on your part, I'd love to keep in touch as friends, then possibly pursue more when/if you're ready assuming both of us are on board. Or, if it's healthier/more supportive for you to go radio-silent for a time, I'd love to hear from you when you feel like you're on more solid footing to see about exploring a possible relationship at that time.

 

As mentioned previously, I'm in no particular hurry & I wasn't kidding when I said that time with you, by all measures thus far, is well worth waiting for - be it as only friends or someday more.

 

I hope you have a wonderful weekend with your mother and her partner.

Take care, and let me know if there is any support I can provide.

 

Smye"

 

By no means am I planning to 'wait for her.' 1) That's not fair to me - who knows how long this will take, if she'll still be interested when/if she resumes dating, and even then whether we'd actually be a good match. 2) That's not fair to her - it sets up an implicit obligation on her part to contact me again and/or may inadvertently pressure her to rush a process which ought to happen organically. 3) Even if I'm in a relationship when/if she contacts me again, I really and truly want to be her friend. 4) I absolutely had a crush, wow... but I'm no where near ready for a serious relationship.

 

I suppose there's a hint of relief - there's no one I'm all that interested in at the moment, so the anxiety of 'are my feelings/hopes/etc returned?' has nowhere to take hold. Unfortuately - that's because I doubt anyone can ever live up to The Socialist in terms of intelligence, grace, charm, beauty, wittiness, authenticity, etc. Actress, she might have made it, but seriously, I'm picky and nothing on the horizon's yet measures up.

(Note: The Actress' nickname here is in no way commentary on her interactions with me - I just received a message alluding to as much - I think she's entirely genuine here.)