Mental Dust-Bunnies

Could someone please de-escalate climate change for us all? 

It’s Friday and the first day of November. Air pollution levels in Sydney are higher than in China and climate change protestors are clashing with police in Melbourne. I don’t know about your own neck of the woods, but these are at flashpoint. Our forests used to have a defined fire season, now they’re at risk for eleven months of the year. At what point can we say ok, there’s an emergency situation here – we’ve left it at least thirty years with scientists warning us every day of catastrophe and now, maybe, we might want to do something?

Still waiting for the Australian government to step up and say, “You know what, you’ve got a great point there, with your protesting. Let’s sit down together and make changes. Let’s belatedly declare a emergency and work together for our shared survival, as we’re so fond of saying in other emergencies. We can do this. Instead of having police assault non-violent concerned citizens with capsicum spray and punches and truncheons, we’ll de-escalate this situation. For the sake of us all.”

Still waiting…

EDIT: I altered the title from “Have they heard of de-escalation?” to “Waiting for Govt Action re Climate,” in order to make the content more obvious to readers.

Another hot blustery day in late Spring and I slept like Rip Van Winkle, awoken after noon, for crying out loud, by god knows what. Sticky, aggravated, earplugs still in from shutting out the neighbourhood and the wailing-for-no-reason cat, mouthguard in so I don’t grind what’s left of my teeth to chalk. I’m irrationally cranky and no less cranky for being aware of it.

Embarrassing to be whinging about being sweaty, when my hoarding of warm bedding started after a prolonged period of being too cold. Embarrassed for waking so late when some are forced to wake before the sparrows and commute hours to crummy jobs. For goodness sake, DustBunny, get your whinges in order and now might be the right time to get back on the gratitude bandwagon.

Oh boy, am I grateful. Am I? Of course.

My computer rebooted itself abruptly after a software update, and lost the rest of my ramble. Lovely!

So now I’m grateful for a do-over.

I’m grateful for friendships with ex-partners and for memories such as a child’s involvement in NaNoWriMo and the household Happy Jar. I re-read some Happy Jar entries yesterday (old ones, stuck in a scrap book) and plan to incorporate them into my book. For those who haven’t encountered such jars, you fill them with pieces of paper. On each paper scrap you write briefly about something that made you happy that day. Mine are often scraps of random-as-heck conversation with my best friend, or moments in public that were surprisingly fun. I recall my ex’s child writing about my enjoyment of a home-grown fig. Truly, is there anything more exquisite than a freshly picked, sun-warmed fig?

My best friend hates figs, so I’ve since planted four trees and know I don’t have to fight him for them. I also tell him that human urine makes a wonderful strawberry fertiliser, to keep him from those delicacies. He has his own tricks, don’t you worry. He took me shopping this week, after my support worker became unavailable at the last minute. “It’s ok, who needs to eat?” I asked the lovely woman on rostering, who knows me far too well. We laughed. Being of nervous persuasion I plan for such contingencies and stockpile, just a little, just cans. But I still need fresh vegetables. And I’d been hoping to dash into the optometrist for a quick frame adjustment, so that I could stop pushing the darn things up my nose. But who needs to see, anyway? And I’m grateful for hands, to be able to push them, and for the money I spent on glasses in the first place, so that I could push and curse all day.

The air is blue. I like blue. I’m thankful for that too.

One of the joys of being an old fart is dealing with deteriorating eyesight. I finally bit the bullet (terrible phrase) and visited an optometrist for the first time since starting transition.

With a clean slate I hoped to avoid awkward conversations about my choice of frames, let alone my name change and new gender marker on my Medicare card. Yes, the optometrist is yet another place to come out (or not) and to face the binary gender selection. 

Growing up in the 70’s, I’m used to having ‘unisex’ options, so asking for the ‘unisex’ glasses frame selection was reasonably comfortable, prior to transition. Later, I just couldn’t face the conversation at all, combined with the anxiety of leaving home in the first place. It’s not like they take ‘walk-ins’, so that I could seize the day on a good day and give them my money in exchange for improved vision. No, you have to make an appointment, then I have to arrange transport and perhaps a support person, and manage my blooming anxiety until the appointment time. Then, if they are running late, I have to manage it some more. 

I’m twitching and fidgeting as I write, thanks to the residual discomfort. Truth was, it wasn’t so bad the first time I attended. They took my card and gendered me male and the appointment went relatively smoothly. The trouble started when my age and new client status prompted a more thorough eye inspection. Extra tests, extra time in the chair, extra conversations and anxiety management. Not the end of the world, but despite my best efforts the tension ramped and when the second appointment involved more tests, I may have lost the plot for a short time. Whether they noticed, I’m not clear, but let’s just say that I am against returning ever again. Even though my new glasses have three phases: blurry, blurrier, blurriest. 

Yes, this makes me sound like a drama queen. Anxiety often does. It’s like having a barely audible voice narrate your life with added chaos and disasters, triggering involuntary tension and hyper vigilance. I can’t explain my fear in rational terms because all I have is “we’re gonna die!” Or “watch out!”

My cat is now curled against my shoulder, having inveigled her way there via the keyboard. Her squinty gaze and loud purring are comforting, so a kind interpretation might be that she sensed my stress and sought to assist. Thanks puss (I know it’s really all about you). 

Today I’m here to give thanks for everyone who has read, commented on and shared my blog posts. It’s already given me such enjoyment and satisfaction to be part of this network.

Now I’m gearing up to begin my first NaNoWriMo. Holy mackerel! 

The aim is to complete my book’s first draft during November. I was going to say ‘break its back’ but that sounds gruesome, like I’ve run over a goanna on my bicycle. Who needs that image in their head while writing a memoir? @jedigirl, I imagine you could whip it into something wonderful, being a whizz with writing prompts.

I usually get nervous whenever my contacts list creeps over 40 (sometimes even 30) on any online platform, because I’m incapable of maintaining meaningful friendships with that number of humans. Cats, perhaps, but not humans. Now this blog has more than 40 followers, which somehow isn’t scaring me in the same way. Perhaps it’s because some of those followers have hundreds of their own, so they probably won’t notice me lurking here in the shrubbery. Some, like @bloomwordian and @jefftcann, have seemingly limitless contacts and just as much energy for networking. I’m avidly observing their community-building skills, and gradually getting to know those who regularly like and comment here. I appreciate the company and encouragement. It’s a supportive little ecosystem. Fruitful!

Speaking of fruit, I don’t know whether that’s still a code name for queers, but goodness, I’m pleased to see so many here. We’re not all in a position to be ‘out’ or visible, I know this, and I appreciate those who are. @kylieluvsart will help many, I can tell. @raisingorlando has already helped, through fierce self-reflection and advocacy. Knowing that allies will speak up to bullies and in response to misinformation gives me such a full heart, I can’t even express it. 

A nod to my familiar, today named Killer Whale for the purposes of this blog, who is currently studying my Apple mouse and squeakily purring. At odd moments I attempt to channel the voice of @colinfmcqueen to narrate Killer Whale’s household activities. There are many pauses, just ripe for droll asides.   

And now I’ve run out of steam, or it is caffeine? There are many I’d like to thank by name and I’m unsure whether they would enjoy that exposure. If I’ve ever hugged you in person, be sure I’d love to hug you again for being part of this exposure therapy experiment. @edowers, we’ll get to the lake eventually! @zashin, I’m still counting on meeting you in an alternate universe for coffee and garden tours. 

The rain has paused and I’m drawn to venture outside for weeding, birdwatching and Vitamin D, so hooroo for now and thanks again. Let me know if you’ll be part of NaNoWriMo?

PS. if these tags don’t work, could someone please instruct me on how to fix them?

Have you ever lived in a house made of louvres? I do hope that’s the correct word, or we’re off to a rough start. Back in Darwin, the share house was made of such things, allowing air flow, a lovely quality in the tropics.

Then there was a Depression-era log cabin, back down south – unlined, uninsulated and therefore louvre-like. It was cold as the proverbial in a Victorian winter, and hot enough to evaporate eyeballs in summer.

In Gympie, QLD, I was offered the old school bus as a bedroom, but as often as not slept by the fire in the main house. At Waikuku, NZ, it was an old fibro beach shack with a toilet that froze overnight.

None of them were particularly private. The louvres in particular were often mortifyingly revealing in a house full of young people. All had a certain rustic charm however. All allowed communion with numerous creatures small and bitey, and both the cabin and the bus came with outside baths, although only the latter was heated… with a fire… under the stars. There was a certain romantic quality to each.

Not so with this place I’m in now. I am reminded of stables in a Brutalist style, and when I dream of it (yes, I do), I’m back in a bus – a large, boring one with flat tyres. I have heating, cooling, hot and cold running water, solid walls and doors and even flyscreens, but romance? Pah!

That’s why I garden in the wild-and-woolly style. That’s why I write and craft and stare out the window at the old stone church of yore; trying to inject some soul into the concrete and asbestos and tin.

Some young tradesmen, in their infinite wisdom (or was it jest?) placed Next Door’s aircon unit on our adjoining wall, which allows me to share the joys of motorised noise and vibration. Some days I feel as though my rooms are atop a giant washer on spin cycle. As Next Door and I enjoy vastly different body clocks, I’m frequently jolted awake and instantly wish to dismember animate and/or inanimate objects. It’s a pip.

As someone with hermit tendencies, I long for caves and cabins in isolated areas. From hard-won experience I know I wouldn’t last long, but a bit of quiet once in a while is a lovely thing. I’d almost sacrifice some structural integrity for some.

Yesterday I asked what to write about next, and promptly received the link to a Melbourne community radio show. I’m listening to Little Birdy and the song makes me want to add a hallelujah at this point.

I’m typing with one hand on this clunky keyboard, the other engaged in cradling the cat. She started on the keyboard, I moved her to my shoulder and she stealthily slid to my paunch, bless her soft white socks. The whole point of this computer purchase was to revisit the joy of fast, accurate typing, and I specifically asked for a cat who wouldn’t help me type. I guess I wasn’t specific enough. She’s certainly not helping, lol, but warms my heart.

So, back to the link… I’ve not yet had the pleasure of meeting the host, Sally, although she’s played a part in my transition. She helped train my mental health support workers, for example. Nor have I yet met Jodie. Eden though is a friend who is gracious about my need to keep most people at arm’s length. It was exciting to hear more about their studies and the whole podcast prompted another long one-handed bout of typing. (I know how that sounds, haha.)

Had to share my happiness. Hope you too are enjoying your weekend.

Today I deleted my Space Book profile. It was time to do it anyway, as their infernal algorithms and the latest site updates had been messing with my ability to do my own thing.  It just wasn’t the way I expected this to go.

Spring weather has been characteristically windy here, which messes with my wifi. I don’t know why, but it always does. So pages load slowly and I nearly die of apoplexy, recalling the grand old days of dial-up. 

The other day I saw a meme posted by people protesting the use of overcrowded cages to separate refugee children from their parents in USA. These memes have been doing the rounds for as long as ICE has employed Draconian tactics and thus horrified the civilised world. Inevitably, a certain first world leader has been compared with that most famous of German vegetarians, and ICE with that German’s violent enforcers. 

The meme I chose to share was basically saying that not all laws are just (gasp!) and therefore your protests are valid. I made it visible to a smaller group of friends who would appreciate the validation of their humanitarian values, aware that it could be misconstrued by others. And it was deleted from my page by the invisible powers that be, within a minute. 

I could have let things be, but no, I chose to ask the site for clarification. The only available option I could see was to request a review of their decision. So I did that, hoping for the smallest of conversations. After all, I’ve seen multitudes of ambiguous posts on that site, along with outright abuse and abusive behaviour. I thought I could make my case. But no. 

Yesterday I was notified that because I had been abominably naughty on their pristine site, I was banned from “going live” for 28 days. When I looked up the site guidelines for acceptable behaviour and their consequences, I saw that a 28 day ban was for repeat offenders. Supposedly they look at your pattern of behaviour and dispense consequences accordingly. Cause for pause, certainly, as my page was riddled with authority-questioning material. Gosh, did they think I was a teenager who needed a slap? I couldn’t imagine the head honcho being the slapping type. 

Could they instead have misinterpreted the meme I shared as being anti-Semitic? In that case, there was one hundred percent no pattern of behaviour to base a ban on. 

I remembered earlier posts by Black women and others who were outspoken about racism, classism, all the isms. I remembered numerous indignant posts on their public pages, protesting bans for calling out injustices and calling out bigots. I remembered that the site itself had a pattern of behaviour.

There’s so much I could say on that theme, but golly gosh, others have expressed it so well and I’m too tired. I’d rather delete my profile, step away from the nonsensical corporation and take my pen and paper elsewhere. 

So here I am again, cat on lap and Roget’s thesaurus beside me, mechanical pencil at the ready. What should I write about next?

A friend showed me the detailed questionnaire on personal values that she’d been asked to complete prior to an Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) session. She’s academically minded and the wording was understandably too vague, general and wishy-washy for her liking, so we went through it together. I’ve got some experience with wishy-washy and with ACT, and could translate. It was a surprisingly satisfying experience for us both.

My mother once commented on the variety of activities I’ve engaged in as an adult, and on how disparate, how disjointed it all looked to her. To her, I’d jumped randomly from one thing to the next. To me, I’d followed definite themes, although the shapes of those varied according to circumstance. 

My mother and I are not close and this pains me. My father has always been the one who tried to understand where we kids were coming from, rather than constantly bemoaning our non-conformity. Even when he gets exasperated with us and our lack of conventional success, I know he’s made the effort to empathise; it’s just that his own life experience is miles from our own. But even when we appear on the surface to have abandoned all we’ve been taught, I see deeper themes and values emerge.

We were raised to value nature and community, for example. To be honest. What we lacked in street smarts we made up for in conscientiousness and courtesy. That’s all still there, albeit in various disguises at times. I don’t know how to explain that except that context is everything. I’m thinking that this may be the title of my next book: Context is Everything.

(This is but a fragment of today’s writing spree, so I offer apologies if it seems incomplete.)

Almost Friday and I’m already sputtering, little fuel left in the tank. Few coherent thoughts and a strong desire to hide. But I’m happy! I’ve accomplished a series of tasks that patchworked a fortnight of socialising, exercising and working in the Spring garden.

Show the reader, don’t tell them, said my creative writing teacher. Fiddlesticks, say I. When you show someone, everything is open to interpretation. When I want it to be very clear how something affected me, I’ll bloomin’-well tell you. It’s like looking at a field full of flowering gorse bushes in New Zealand. One person will say it’s pretty, another will say it’s full of weeds. And the star of Fools and Dreamers: Regenerating a Native Forest, a botanist called Hugh Wilson, would say those bushes are a splendid nurse crop for native trees. It’s all in the interpretation.

I’ve not written anything substantial in weeks and that’s ok. Ebb and flow, growth and fallow, inside and outside among the insects and blossoms. Naturally I still wonder when I’ll ever finish the book and whether I even want to, any more. That’s ok too, it’s a rich mix of compost up there in my noggin. Consistency is manageable for me when nurturing plants and animals, not with creative projects. If I push too hard, I fall. Hard. Nurturing projects includes giving myself space to process new things, assimilate, laugh, rest. And today I’m happy to have fulfilled the tasks I set myself, despite the terror of facing them. So I’m resting and blabbing away, possibly incoherently, here. Yay me. Yay you too!

Hey, it was Suicide Prevention day or week or something, this week. It seems nonsense to wait for one day or week per year to check in with people, so I aim to keep in touch with everyone on a fairly regular basis, but I’ve let things slide a little and I’m sorry. I never want to become someone who habitually says sorry for being too busy. A family member has just been discharged from hospital after self-harming and although this isn’t an isolated event, it hits me hard each time as someone who loves them and wants to be more supportive than I even know how. I didn’t even realise how worried I was until they returned home and I cried. We’ve had some good conversations since then and I’m happy about that. We’ve worked hard to be good to each other over the years.

So, I’m happy. Tired and a tad irritable and praising myself for not scheduling anything for me to go outside for, today, and happy. Sometimes good things happen. Sometimes I overcome my anxiety. Sometimes I get online and tell complete strangers intensely personal things about myself!

This post is specifically for any trans person who is currently navigating the medical or psychiatric systems in search of validation and support.

If it’s going well, congratulations! That’s fantastic.

It can be hard. If you’re struggling, you might think that it will never end or that you’ll never find the right person or people to help you. I know how that feels. I see you. I hear you.

There were times when I thought that I’d never be able to access what I needed. Why had I bothered doing all that reflection and research? Why had I bothered coming out to others and being courageous enough to disclose my intention to pursue medical transition? There were times when I was so discouraged that I considered donating my surgery savings to someone else, so that someone could benefit. Goodness knows that money is often a barrier for us! There were times when I considered self harm, which meant that once again I needed to reach out for mental health support (I hate it, but it works for me).

My life is gently re-shaping itself and being trans feels as normal to me now as being left-handed. I’ve enough loving people in my life to make the nay-sayers irrelevent. I guess I’m here to say that it gets better. Anything you’re thinking or feeling has likely been experienced by thousands before you. You’re NOT weird or crazy. More importantly, you’re not alone and you’re lovable just as you are, right now.

I found it hard to find people who understood how difficult the process is and knew what to say. Back then, I knew very few others like myself. When seeking empathy and validation, I was often left emotionally shredded. I’d never felt more lonely. Often I felt as though I was on a disintegrating iceberg, surrounded by well-meaning sharks. Hurray for the internet and for online support.

Here’s an example of an unhelpful psych appointment. Several years ago I made copious notes after consulting a local, government-employed psychiatrist. They had admitted that they were a beginner in the field and expressed a willingness to learn. Hopeful, yes? However the appointment showcased their ignorance and arrogance and was a stellar lesson in how to distress a gender-diverse person. Imagine everything you wouldn’t want to hear from a mental health professional, and they probably said it to me, while talking over me, jumping to conclusions and disregarding my lived experience. If they’d truly been willing to learn and to respect my experience and knowledge, I’d have been ok with that. If they’d been arrogant but excellent, I’d have managed. But ignorant AND arrogant left us with nowhere to go. I wrote them a carefully worded letter, knowing that those are kept on file, and moved on.

Then fell in a heap for a while. Then moved on. Persistence and resilience are key.

Like I said, things are smoother, easier now. I needed support and reassurance back then – I needed to know that I wasn’t weird or crazy or unlovable, and that I wasn’t alone in finding the process incredibly difficult. In the end, I made it through with the help of people who loved me and who did their best. Support people helped keep me afloat while all my coping skills were thoroughly tested. It was a modern replay of my first coming out process – lonely and fearful and confusing – but with the benefit of internet and life experience.

Use what works for you and please, persist. You are loved and valued.

For any allies reading this, here are a few things that affirm and validate my identity. You may choose to support your trans loved ones in similar ways:

Strangers call me sir, buddy, mate, mister, etc. My support people use my pronouns (he/him or they/them) when referring to me in conversations or paperwork. My sibling refers to me as their brother. Mail arrives correctly addressed – Mr (or no title) then my chosen name. A friend tells me I’m handsome. A medical specialist shakes my hand at the beginning and end of each appointment. A friend who is still coming to terms with my identity uses non-gendered language around me as a compromise. I appreciate all these things.