Coming Out

     I've been so blessed as of late. My five year anniversary of becoming a Christian was on Sunday, and it's been so beautiful to see Him working in my life lately. The service dog thing has been wonderful; my trainer has already found me a dog who, through no fault of his own, washed out of a service dog training organization up north after completely nearly the entire program. As of Thursday night, he will be officially mine. His name is Shadow, he'll turn 3 in May, and he's a Golden Retriever/Lab mix. He's the cutest thing to ever walk the Earth (no, seriously, he is; I'm not even a dog person and he's freaking precious!) and apparently is already very well trained. I can't wait to meet him.

    Not only has all of the service dog things worked out crazily well, but my trans*ness hasn't awful lately. I've been coming out in my classes (why do college professors insist on making us introduce ourselves and tell something interesting?) and it's gone well. I've got 6 classes this semester and I'm out in three and working on coming out in the fourth (ironically, the only classes I'm not out in are the two taught by The Professor; I figure he's got enough to deal with from me with all of my disability accommodations and rape issues, poor guy). It hasn't been a problem at all; while I wasn't expecting it to be, it never becomes less scary. This is the first time I've ever introduced myself by my chosen name, which was definitely a trip. The first time I did it was in the class that is taught by the professor who really supported me through a lot of this; the look of pride he had on his face when I was brave enough to do it made it worth it. The last class I came out to is taught by a brand-new emergency hire; when he realized that I'm trans* and he wouldn't find me on the roster by my name, he asked me for my last name rather than my birth name. While it doesn't seem like that big a deal, especially given that I knew many people in my class when I still went by my birth name, it was a really sweet and much appreciate gesture.

There's another trans* guy (not, thankfully, the one I tried to date for a couple of weeks; I very purposefully ignore him now) in my Monday class. I had to make a concerted effort not to stare and be creepy; there's just that feeling of instant community, you know? I desperately want to befriend him now, hopefully sans the creepy staring.

I love God's timing!

Oh my goodness, I love when God just makes it so obvious how perfect His timing is! He just lays everything out for me right in my lap, making it as simple as following breadcrumbs. It's glorious to see His work so clearly like that.

Since developing PTSD after my rape, as most of you know, I've been on the hunt for a service dog. The service dog candidate that I tried didn't work out for several reasons. There are precious few service dog organizations willing to train PTSD dogs for non-vets. Most cost 30-40k. The only one near me that is low-to-no cost and feasible to go to has a long waiting list and, though I'd interviewed with them, I just hadn't moved forward with a commitment yet. Nothing has been right yet.

Tonight, I went to my final class of the night, where I ran into a friend who I haven't seen since early last semester. She and I have lots in common thanks to our similar mental illnesses. Lo and behold, tonight, she had a lovely Golden Retriever curled up beneath her seat; she'd gotten a service dog for her PTSD! We got to talking, and I found out that she actually had her dog trained by a trainer just a county away who, as a service dog owner herself, offers low cost psych service dog training! My friend called her trainer after our class and passed along my information. The trainer and I just got off the phone. My guess is that, within the next two weeks, I will be becoming the proud mommy (yes, as a trans*guy I still call myself mommy, don't ask) of a service dog in training! I could not be more grateful for the way that God just lined everything up so clearly that even I couldn't miss it.

I think...

...that I'm actually going out on a date next week. What the actual fuck? I haven't been on a /date/ since I was like 15. We're going to go to a food truck (because, bee tee dubz, there is a freaking sushi burrito food truck in LA and how can you /not/ go to that?!) and then hang out. Like, how do I even go on a date? I'm excited. I think.

Talk about feeling old

     Two friends from my old church, one my age and one a year younger, were married a few months back. I was rather surprised, but they'd always been impetuous and I had no doubts they'd make it work. They're a wonderful pair. Now, thanks to Facebook, I found out it was a shotgun wedding. They just welcomed their beautiful daughter into the world. More than slightly shocked to find that out, but between the two of them and their wonderful families, that little girl is lucky.

     I swear, though, I feel older by the minute! So many of my friends are getting engaged, married, or now, popping out babies, all while I'm just trying to get my life back together and graduate college. Holy cow...

Notes from today

1. Cleaning litterboxes really isn't that bad. The Fiancée, I'm sorry I didn't realize this sooner. Cleaning crap off the rug because the cat was too scared to go all the way to the box, however, is that bad. Welcome to fostership, I guess.

2. Lady on the street with your kid on a leash and your Chihuahua running free, you're doing it wrong.

3. Receptionist at my work, trust me, the enmity you feel towards me is more than mutual. However, I have the professionalism to not glare at you and roll my eyes. I have done nothing other than ask you to do your job these past two weeks in contacting my students; it's not my problem you're too busy listening to crappy podcasts to do so. Please believe me when I say I would not regret whapping you upside the head with my textbook.

4. Local library, your hours suck. Your cart giving away free books, however, does not.

5. It's nice to have friends that you hang out with when you don't have the ability to make an effort. Knowing the feeling is mutual is even nicer. Getting dragged to the grocery store isn't quite so nice.

6. It's when I want to drink that I know I shouldn't. As that feeling is becoming constant, I think that means abstaining from liquor for perpetuity. I wish I wasn't too responsible to become an alcoholic.

7. Cat... I don't even know what you are. You are not a cat. You are some weird alien pretending to be a cat, a lá Gir in Invader Zim. No other beast comes when called, coos like a dove, and lays in my arms while maintaining eye contact and purring. Someone will be very very lucky to have you.

Missing Her

     Sometimes I wonder what she would do if I called her. Would she answer? Would she respond if I left a voicemail? Is she hoping to talk to me and have a friendship again someday? Is it supposed to be on my end to reach out for that? I know she wouldn't answer, in the same way she hasn't responded to the gifts I've sent her or the texts on holidays. So I won't; I ruined enough with her without intruding now where I'm not welcome. Sometimes I wonder anyway though...

     One of the biggest things I wonder is what her thoughts on me now are. Between this and my Tumblr for her, if she reads them, she's still up to date on my life. Does she see everything that went wrong as reasons we'll never have a friendship? Does she look at whatever she's doing now and think she can only do them without me in her life? I'm well aware that her leaving me was the catalyst for all her changes and I'm glad for her that she can make them. Sometimes I'm terrified, though, that the only image of me that she keeps in her head is the one where I was so scared to lose her that I turned into a monster to try to make her stay. I wonder if she realizes that that was never who I wanted to be and someone I wouldn't turn into again if we start a friendship someday.

     Sometimes I wonder if she knows how much she hurt me with her lies, even if it was often my fault she lied. After we broke up, she promised that our cats would live with both of us again someday. She said that, if same sex marriage really becomes legal here, she knew we'd do it. I spend hours at night now wondering just what was a lie. Was she really not in love with me anymore or was that a lie she told so she could be strong and brave enough to leave? Was she ever in love with me? How much of me did she resent? Does she still love me now in some way? Does she know how sorry I am? That I'm glad she left because all I want is her to be happy? How desperately I hope we can learn how to be friends someday?

     I wonder, too, about how cold she can be. If she reads this, I want to know how she could ignore me after I was raped by a good friend, after I begged her for even just a text because I didn't know how to survive that. I needed to know someone didn't think I deserved it, that I wasn't filthy for it, that someone could love me in a way that didn't end up destroying parts of me. I wonder if she thinks I deserved to hurt for it, deserved to be alone, and that's why she never contacted me. I'm not sure I would disagree with her.

Bittersweet

I'm sitting here with two new foster kitties (pictures to come!), but I can't help but think how bittersweet it is. I adore them and I'm so happy to have saved their lives and ensured they'll have great new homes. After all, here in LA, 2/3 of shelter cats don't make it out of the shelters alive and, as friendly as these two are, at a year old each and one "just" an orange tabby, their chances weren't great. I'm happy, I really am... But Christ, does this make me ache for The Fiancée and our kittens. They're 9 months old now, and I haven't seen them since the end of August when they were still so little. Even more than I miss my babies, I miss my ex. I'm glad she left because this is so much happier and healthier for her and that's what I want above anything for her, but I hate that I made her make that decision. I hate that I'm too sick to show her that I love her and treat her how I should have. I hate that it was mostly my fault we couldn't manage a healthy relationship or friendship. I miss her, and I hate that too because I feel selfish for it when I know how much beter off she is without me in her life. I wish I could tell her how sincerely sorry I am. I only write to her once a month now; I was too dependent on writing her the daily letters so I cut them off after the first month or so. I ended up posting to Facebook a lot more with the ridiculous tidbits from my day, but it was healthier that way. I never sent her letters save for holidays, because I wanted to respect her request that I not talk to her anymore, but I hope she reads my blog to her. Mainly, like I said above, I just desperately want her to know how sorry I am and that, someday if she'll allow it, I'd love to create a friendship with her. Outside of having been deeply in love with her, I cherished, and still cherish, her as a person. I know it's difficult and hard and frustrating and sometimes hurtful to make a friendship with someone after a relationship ends, but, if she ever wanted a friendship with me, she'd be worth it a million times over. Sometimes, I'm more tempted than I care to admit to try to contact her. Send her an email or a text or a message or something; just extend that thought in some way. But that's not fair to her because, no matter how broken hearted I've been sine she left, it's inconsequential compared to the pain I caused her. If she ever wants me back in her life, she knows just where to find me and I need to wait for that time. I may not be in love with her the way I was, but I pray that she knows I still love her unconditionally and literally nothing can change that. I told her once that one of my (admittedly many) favourite things about her is what an intrinsically good person she is and I know that, whatever lies were told, that could never change. Maybe I'm selfish but I hope her penchant for forgiving people and loving them again applies to me too.

Four Months

     It's been four months since The Fiancée cut off contact. I could never have imagined surviving this long without her. I never fail to be amazed that I made it through this. I hope her life is becoming everything she could wish for, and that someday she'll realize how incredibly sorry I am that I was such a monster.

Disconnected

As proud of my father as I am, our relationship has been strained and tenuous my whole life. When I was a toddler and my parents were together, he preferred to spend his time at work or paintballing and clubbing with his friends instead of spending time with me. Once my mother and I left, he frequently missed visits while he was drunk or high; if he was home, he would lay hungover on his couch while I listened to his country music that made me cry ("Who's That Man?" anyone? He sent it to me years later when we were fighting, once). Like I said in my previous post about him, I can count the number of weeks I've seen him in the 12 years of his Army career on my fingers and toes with some to spare.

For much of my life, I struggled to believe that he loved me. I saw his failings as a father as meaning that I failed to be worth his love and attention. I thought that, since he placed his work and his hobbies and his friends and now his new family above me, it meant that I was too broken, too unwanted to be loved. (Some psychologist have, unsurprisingly, hypothesized that the lack of love from my father was the impetus behind my promiscuity with boys, but that's neither here nor here). It's taken me all of my 19 years to come to the point that, with effort, I can believe that he really does love me in the ways he's capable of.

Earlier this week, I spent the day with my step-father running errands. I joked how much easier it was for him to come into my life when I was 5 (and absurdly well behaved, clearly a trait I outgrew) than having to now raise his daughter from birth onwards. He began a discussion how much more challenging it was to deal with my father. According to my step-father, the scarce few times I managed times my father managed to be sober enough to see me, his only motivation was attempting to reconcile with my mother. As my step-father so delicately put it, "He didn't care about you at all. You were just the tool he used to see the person he really cared about, your mom."

I'm not sure many things have managed to devastate me more than having a father-figure confirm to me just how little my father cared for me. When I later told my mom, she denied it vehemently. My logical side believes her. I know my daddy loves me as best as he is capable of and shows it in the ways he can. Emotionally, though, I can't help but be ever more convinced that it really is my fault I wasn't worth my father sticking around.

That awkward trans moment...

...when you're actually intensely disappointed when you realize that your riding boots are rubbing your leg hair off. It takes months for my testosterone-deprived body to accomplish that!

Aching

     I work as a part-time secretary at the school where I teach. Most of the time here, I alternate between wanting to hide from humanity entirely or just throw my bosses off a cliff. Today, though, it aches. I just got a call from the mother of one of our young students; they won't be able to come to the next two classes because her brother was just killed in Afghanistan. Her quiet composure was torturous to listen to.

     As both the child of a soldier and someone who lives near a military base, hearing of soldier deaths isn't a rare occurrence for me; even when it's one of my dad's men, I have very little reaction to it. This time, though, the death of an unknown brother to a woman I've only met in passing has me feeling as though someone took a sledgehammer to my chest. The amount of grief I feel for a life ended too soon and the loved ones he left behind has brought me to my knees, crying out to God to love on this family so hard. Whether you pray or not, keep this family and our fallen soldier in your thoughts. The road they are facing is one no one should have to journey down.

Army Brat

     My father enlisted in the US Army on 23 April 2000. I vividly remember going to the recruiter with him; the recruiter was a ginger and desperately tried to talk to me while I cried behind my mother. I was 6. He moved to Fort Benning on 13 September 2000 for basic, transferred to Fort Bragg on 27 April 2001, and PCSed to Italy on 28 August 2002. It's hard to believe he has been there for over a decade now. He deployed for the first time to Iraq on 28 March 2003; he's shipped out to Afghanistan three times since, in 2005, 2007, and 2009. He has spent 43 months of his life downrange at war. His battalion is currently back in Afghanistan; as a First Sergeant fulfilling the role of Rear D company commander, though, he has remained on post in Italy. He's been pulled for promotion, likely by end of the year, at which point he will be a sergeant major. Since his enlistment, I've seen him typically every other year; my guesstimate is that I've seen him for a grand total of 14 weeks. I could not be prouder to be a soldier's child and my father is an exemplary soldier.

     Throughout my life, he and I have had a strained relationship. When I was toddler, while my parents were together, my mother has video of me screaming for him while he was out paintballing and boozing with friends. His first deployment was, for me, wonderful: I constantly received letters from him and phone calls whenever he had the opportunity, even if it was at 0200 my time. Once he returned to Caserma Ederle, his home base, that stopped. I have every email we've ever exchanged saved; it is not uncommon to see a gap of at least a month, if not several, between his emails. Phone calls were rare and on his time schedule. Our visit in 2007 culminated in a screaming match in my driveway when he threatened to leave and, finally, a promise to keep in contact with a weekly email. We exploded over email a year later, with accusations flying and blame getting put on both of us. Nothing changed. Nothing ever changed, except I grew in my ability to accept him, as my father, for who he is and not who I wished he was.

     The week after I was raped and I told him, he flew out and ended up on my doorstep as a surprise. The visit was intensely appreciated and, though rocky like always, I really enjoyed getting to spend a whole week with him. Since then, he's been pretty good about keeping contact with me; it's vaguely shocking but I'm enjoying it while it lasts. He's said multiple times what a good teacher I am. Our last phone conversation, on Christmas, he told me how proud he was of how well I've done in school and that he was especially impressed by how well I've done in spite of everything that happened this semester. I've very literally never heard that before from him.

     There was a point to this post, though. I've started watching "Married to the Army: Alaska" on TLC. I see these wives and kids with deployed soldiers, and the soldiers make a point to call and Skype once or even twice a day. Obviously, when black outs occur or they're on missions, things are different, but the soldiers make such an effort. There's one woman who, like me, hears from her soldier less often; she got maybe 5 Skype sessions in 7 months of deployment and a call every couple of weeks. Another wife commented on how ridiculous (and pathetic, really) that is. Watching the show, I try so hard to justify why my father, even when he's now on Rear D and not downrange, contacts me still so rarely. He's not an officer, like some of the soldiers on the show, so he can't easily delegate tasks to make time for himself. He's a SFC, so he has so much more responsibility than the lower ranking soldiers. He's in charge of his entire battalion while they're downrange, and it's several full-time jobs rolled into one. I really want to believe he contacts me whenever he can. Even with this recent improvement, though, I'm just not so sure that's true.