The LGBT Paradox

 

While there’s no doubt that, as a society, we’ve made incredible strides in the area of tolerance and inclusion, I can’t help but wonder if in some ways we have over-corrected.

My two adult children have grown up in an era where, in the quest to promote acceptance, the lines between conformity and individuality have been blurred. It’s a privilege to grow up knowing you will be accepted for whoever you are; yet privilege should never be muddled with choice.  And some young people today truly believe that they need to decide who they want to be, as opposed to figuring out and embracing who they actually are.

My son Trever, 21, still doesn’t know if he’s straight, gay, bi, or possibly asexual. And Nate, 20, --though he’s positive he’s only sexually and romantically attracted to females--isn’t sure if he’s a cis male or a transgendered female (for brevity, I’m only listing the general terms for how young people identify these days, since the vocabulary is constantly expanding and evolving). 

I’ve always been drawn to the outliers of society--the musically gifted, the transgendered, the savants—and I openly shared that mindset with my children as they were growing us.  This legitimately wasn’t a conscious decision on my part to, say, raise my kids in a progressive way. My parenting style has always been more follow-my-intuition than anything, so this was simply me sharing my fascination and respect for the exquisite diversity that exists in our world. 

Did my candor inadvertently add to their confusion? 

It’s truly a paradox when, in the spirit embracing diversity and acceptance, one loses the ability to know what it is they actually prefer. Some young people are becoming so focused on embracing diversity as a social construct that they go numb to the idea of individuality. They mistake freedom of expression with an obligation to invent a persona. 

I’m seeing that many young people today are so intent on micro-labeling themselves that in the process, some of them completely lose sight of the whole point of our society’s shift towards acceptance and inclusion.  

Yes--it’s completely normal for some people to need more time, or more experience before they completely understand their true natures. But let's not lose sight of the fact that sexual preference and gender identity are, by and large, instinctive. 

Navigating Nate’s identity issues has taken quite a toll on Ray and me as his parents.  Knowing that your child is lost and being unable to ‘fix it’ quickly is agonizing. But it’s more than that. 

Ray and I legitimately struggle to wrap our brains around it all. Besides Nate being my second son, I was an aunt to 6 nephews before either of my kids arrived; I can say with confidence that I was very familiar with the diverse likes, tendencies and personas of little boys, and without a doubt Nate was the stereotypical “All-Boy”. He was playing with Matchbox Cars at 9 months, and was obsessed with dinosaurs before he was 2.  For Halloween he was Buzz Lightyear, Woody, or the Red Power Ranger. He quickly bonded with other little boys from preschool onwards, had typical boy mannerisms, and, most importantly (and perplexing, for us), he liked being a boy. Not just tolerated it, not was neutral to it, but specifically had expressed that he was glad he was a boy. So when we learned he was questioning his gender identity at the age of 17, we couldn’t help but be baffled.

Being LGBT when I was growing up wasn’t nearly as taboo as it was in my parents  generation (or before), but--without a doubt--there was still a stigma there. If you weren’t born straight and gender conforming you had a few choice--none without a downside.

You could go the ‘façade’ route, meaning, you married and had children in a hetero relationship. Or, you could go rogue, and keep your romantic partners a secret while choosing a ‘perpetually single’ label for the rest of the world. Both of those options meant completely denying your true self.  

The third option was to embrace it and be openly gay, which was, by far, the scariest choice, as you were so much more likely to face discrimination, judgement and condemnation than you would be today. The progress I’ve seen in the past 30 years is phenomenal, and we should never, ever go backwards when it comes to acceptance.  No human being should be forced to deny their true identity or live an unauthentic, secret life with a theme of shame running through it.  At the same time, finding oneself should be a process of discovery, not invention. 

Hate and discrimination undoubtedly still exist when it comes to LGBQT+issues.  Yet many young people--especially over-thinkers and those prone to OCD--are finding themselves stuck in their heads and overanalyzing what they feel, which can lead to unnecessary confusion and doubt. 

Along this journey in our quest for tolerance, countless minds have been opened, and lives have been changed for the better. Yet at the same time, progress can become paradoxically repressive. We need to be careful when talking to our kids about diversity and acceptance, and be sure they understand the real meaning of being your true self. 

One doesn’t need their own ‘alphabet soup’ of identities to be politically correct. Likewise, rejecting the constraints of traditional social construct does not equate to “I need to construct a unique identity”.  

Just as it’s absolutely okay to be statistically in the minority, it’s also absolutely okay to be statistically average. We are who we are. That should never be confused with ‘we are whoever we want to be’.  

Insanity, defined

5/7/2018    

The insanity of alcohol abuse boggles the mind. My drinking is slowly destroying the trust of everyone around me. I’ve created anxiety and resentment, worry, disgust and dread in those I care about most, all while completely stripping raw any shred of self-esteem I may have had left in me.

One recent week marked a new low.

My pattern has been drinking anywhere from 9-16 beers every other day. I’ve been trying to cut down the amount I drink each ‘drinking day’ but it rarely works. The times when I only have 8 or 9 beers in house I usually end up taking a shot or 2 of straight vodka or—even worse—mix whatever old crap we have in the house with soda to keep my buzz on. Last week that took the form of brandy with orange soda—a disgusting combination however way you look at it-- but a necessary evil when that insane drive to keep drinking takes over your brain.

Sunday starts my drinking week, and on this particular Sunday, my husband “Tom” and our older son left in the family car for Costco at 3:30. Exactly 5 minutes later I hopped in Tom’s car, carefully checking his tire alignment before pulling out so I could put it back identically and he’d never suspect I’d left to get more beer. It worked like a charm.

Monday morning came, and Tom couldn’t find his car keys. “Do you know where they are”? he called to me. I was pretty sure in my stealth I’d put them back on the key rack where he’d left them. “No. Why would I”? I answered.

“I don’t know, did you take my car yesterday to buy beer”? “NO”! I fired back immediately, feigning insult at the mere suggestion. But of course I had done just that, so without him seeing I casually peered into my pocketbook and DAMN IT—there was the carabiner clip to his key ring! I palmed it and went over to the key rack in the kitchen. His keys were indeed there but he hadn’t recognized them without the blue clip attached. Ever so slickly I grabbed them and put the clip back on at the same time.

“Here they are”! I said, and he bought it. He hadn’t seen me put the clip back on it and had no idea I had lied about taking his car to cover up yet another beer run.

It’s hard to understand how low lying and cheating about drinking can take your psyche over time. Because just when you think you’ve reached your bottom you manage to dig yourself a little deeper into despair as you continue to lie to the people who mean the most to you.

Monday was of course a “day after, and full of regrets” day. As always I needed a long nap in the morning to recover from alcohol-fueled restless sleep. And I told myself I would not drink again until Friday. How hard could that possibly be?

Tuesday came around and I was still feeling strong by early afternoon. But sometime after 2 the beast began calling me. Tom had an event to go to straight from work and wouldn’t be home until at least 9pm. Even though the days of when the kids were little and blissfully unaware of my drinking were long gone, knowing Tom would be home late and I wouldn’t have to pull off a “family dinner” was still a huge trigger for me, and just like that I resigned myself to be slave to the beast once again.

After taking my younger son for his doctor’s appointment on Tuesday afternoon I dropped him home and went straight to Target for “food”. Of course my main reason for going was beer.

I was thrilled to come home and discover that both of my teenage sons were taking naps. I quickly unloaded my Miller Lite bottles into the fridge, keeping two in hand to retreat to my favorite drinking place: In front of the computer where I could lose myself in social media and music while drowning my brain in alcohol.

To my shock and horror my older son “James” woke up merely 2 beers into my binge and asked if I could drop him at the school to play soccer at 5:30. It was barely 4 o’clock.

He saw I was drinking but I had to play it cool. I’d stop drinking now, I told him, and by 5:30 I’d be fine to drive him. “Ok fine,” he said. “As long as you blow under the limit. He was referring to the keychain BAC device my husband had bought on Amazon. Sadly, my kids can rattle off all of our State’s DWI BAC limits without skipping a beat. They know the drill.

“Of course”! I said, smiling. But inside I was dying, screaming, and --most of all-- plotting.

Two beers marks just about the time the euphoria kicks in and the frenzy of not wanting to stop begins. Now my plans had come to a screeching halt and my booze brain didn’t like, not one little bit. Ideas on how I could pull off the act and still get drunk immediately flooded my mind.

I clearly would have to stop drinking until 5:30. But that left plenty of time to get back to my party-of-one, hide the empties and sober up a tiny bit before Tom returned! “Can you get a ride home”? I asked my son.

“Why? So you can keep drinking?”

“What? No! It’s a beautiful day today, if you can’t get a ride home can you walk”?

The idea that he would buy my ruse, even for a second, was an insult to his intelligence.
James has always been the more perceptive of my two sons, and when it came to my drinking he had developed the sleuthing skills of a pro. He could hear the “Psst” of a beer bottle opening through earbuds and could smell even a sip of booze on my breath. He could easily tell the difference between “Buzzed Mommy” and “Drunk Mommy” by mentally calculating the level of droop in my eyelids and the slur in my voice. And he knows ALL the tricks in my book.

“Okay fine,” I said. “I’ll pick you up”.

His expression told me he was skeptical but it resolved the debate for the moment and I had plenty of time to figure out a Plan C (C, for Continue drinking). Had he counted the remaining beers in the fridge? I wondered. Would he count them again when he came home? Probably. What if I filled my empties with water and reattached the caps? I thought that could work. Would he make me show my BAC when I picked him up? I had an answer for that too—I would sabatoge the BAC keychain and say it broke.

It seemed there was no limit to my creativity when it came to finding new ways to lie to my family about my drinking.

5:30 finally came around and annoyingly my BAC had gone UP from the.02 it showed 20 minutes earlier to .03. “Still under the limit though, its fine” James resolved, as we headed off to the high school. I figured he’d be done in an hour or so and I could get 3 or 4 more beers down in that time. Since my first 2 beers had pretty much worn off I knew that I could pull off sober 4 beers in as long as I wore sunglasses, and it was plenty sunny outside. Yes! The beast was happy.

Barely an hour had passed and I’d just finished my 4th beer (my 6th beer actually, but the 4th since the re-start) when James texted that he was done. “On my way”! I texted back, and blew into the BAC machine for my own knowledge. It said .16. I knew my real BAC was much less, as these BAC readers are inaccurate unless at least 10 minutes pass after swallowing alcohol. I was more likely at .10 or .11. Both of which are legally drunk. I donned my big blue sunglasses, popped a piece of Trident spearmint gum in my mouth, got into the car and picked up my son.

As soon as I got home I resumed drinking again, knowing that if James asked me to blow for a BAC I could blame it on the inaccuracy of having just freshly swallowed. But he never asked. My plan worked.

Later that evening he told me he was glad I was able to stick to my word to not drink while he was playing soccer. And with that, another little of piece of me died inside—killed by the beast in my brain that puts altering my mood with booze above truth and trust and everything else I value most in life.

My James, my sweet, smart, sensitive boy who, because of my behavior, felt obligated to become my supervisor. He worried about my drinking and what it was doing to my health and to us as a family. And now I had managed to pull off a night of drinking without him suspecting I’d broken his “rules”. Betraying his trust without him knowing somehow felt even worse than if he’d caught me red handed.

I had all day Wednesday to let the reality of my guilt stew in my soul.

Thursday became a repeat of Tuesday. Drinking wasn’t an option, I told myself, and there was no reason I couldn’t hold off until Saturday, when Tom and the boys would be gone all day long at an amusement park out of state. I could even day drink on Saturday, and maybe sleep it off a bit before they came home.

My life had become an endless cycle of planning how to pull off my next binge while upsetting my family the least, and the only way to accomplish that always involved sneaking, hiding, and lying.

Of course by Thursday afternoon I was drinking again.

 

 

 

 

 

My Infancy Debriefing: “What was going on when you were born? What kind of families did your mother and father come from? Was your mom and/or dad and adult child?" (An exercise in overcoming childhood trauma as part of my therapy).

My mother has always said that I was her only “planned child”. Modern translation: I was the “Band-aid” child. My parents—AKA “Alec and Lil”--were both 21 years old when they married in 1961. Good Catholics that they were, they had four children by 1965.

When my mother was 8 months pregnant with her 4th child, my father confessed that he had been having a serious affair with another woman. Three days later she went into labor and delivered my brother, their only son. 

Having no other choice, my mother plowed forward with caring for their children while my father continued sowing his wild oats. It was during this period that she sought the counsel of the local parish’s priest. She was desperately loyal to Catholic doctrine, but also recognized that having more children at that point went against all common sense. The priest told her that, despite the Catholic church’s staunch opposition of birth control as a whole, she had to do what she felt was right in her heart, for the good of her family. With her conscience clear, she went on birth control for the first time. 

About 4 years later, my parents came to believe that all was good in their world once again. Was this a delusion fueled by false hope, or denial, or by (Catholic) guilt? It's anyone's guess--but the affair was ancient history, and the power-couple of Alec and Lil were back in the game. A completely imbalanced, immature, dysfunctional game mind you--but a game nonetheless.  

"A perfect time for another baby!"--said no one in that situation, ever.  Except my parents--they thought it was a fabulous idea.  I was conceived, and born, not long after. 

Their marriage was, of course, not the second coming of Christ they'd hoped it would be. Old doubts gained new traction. Perspective gave deeper roots to resentment. Time and maturity were the kryptonite of my parents’ marriage, it seems, because by late 1973, it became crystal clear to both of them that they were out of options; their relationship had passed the point of no return before I was 4 years old. 

At that time, my father Alec was an NYPD cop who walked the beat in Times Square. This was at the height of the civil-rights movement, as well as the free-love, hippie way of life—with midtown Manhattan perhaps being the epicenter of it all. It was a job only those with very thick skins could endure unscathed. He was not one of those people. 

My dad is a walking paradox. The mystery and excitement of Manhattan drew him like a moth to the flame. Times Square in the 60’s and 70’s was oozing with sex, drugs and experimentation, which was scandalously titillating to him, as was the prestige and valor that went with being a police officer. 

At the same time, he was a pensive, artsy, easy-going mama’s boy who hated confrontation. Where battle-of-wills are concerned, my father takes the medal for having the most consecutive duels with all the different aspects of himself.   

It was a difficult time for any empath to be an NYPD cop, and for my dad, the job ate away at his soul. Everyone agrees that he was a problem drinker during this time. He was never violent or aggressive when he drank—quite the opposite. From my understanding, drinking turned off the emotions that managed to escape his many barriers, and only made it easier for him to avoid facing feelings (of course, avoiding feelings is something he’s always done, and continues to do, despite not having a drop of alcohol in over 4 decades).

If my mother wasn’t born a strong woman, life’s circumstances surely made her one. She is the oldest of four, daughter to two first generation Italian-American parents. There's a full 16-year age gap between she and her youngest sibling. Her childhood, like most, was full of both joy and sadness. 

The joy comes from having lived with extended family for most of her young years, creating wonderful memories with their musically-gifted brood: Dinner tables full of lovingly prepared banquets, and spirits to mellow the mind. And always, a guitar strumming, along with voices harmonizing to barbershop, doo-wop, or The Beatles. 

The sadness, because her brother wound up in jail at 14, and her mother died of cancer at the age of 42. 

Cancer is a monster now, but back then, when treatments were extremely limited, it was Satan himself. My mother was only 21 when her mom died, a mere 10 days before her first child--my sister Ann--was born. Her youngest sister, Joanie, was just 4, and as the life was fading from my grandmother's eyes, my mom promised her she'd always have Joanie's back--a promise she would never break. 

My father was an illegitimate child, which was a pretty big deal at the time he was born in 1941. But as was standard practice of that time, the truth about his biological father and everything that went with that story was pushed under the rug. Until, that is, the rug was yanked from underneath his feet. 

While going through the process of marrying my mother, a birth certificate was required. It was only then, when he was 20 years old, that his mother realized the gig was up, and she had to explain why there was a stranger’s name on his birth certificate. 

As it turned out, she gave a very rudimentary explanation at the time—the man he’d known to be his father his whole life actually was his stepfather. Normally, a disclosure of that magnitude would bring on a tsunami of questions, along with emotions. But that’s not how Alec rolled. 

This revelation about his biological father was huge, for sure. Actually, it was TOO huge, so instead of the potentially introspective, life-changing event it could have been, emotional blockades instantly locked into place, like roller shutters on urban bodegas at night, and nothing of substance could pass through the heavy barricades. 

At any rate, there is no question that I was born after an early rupture in my parents’ marriage that they either thought had been repaired, or that they thought my birth would repair.  But before I turned 4, they broke up for good.

Hangover Hell

My eyes open suddenly, and I’m temporarily lost--awakened from a black hole of oblivion--and I’m confused.  It takes several moments to get my bearings, and the very first thing I’m aware of is the terrible taste in my mouth, like chalk and sulfur. I smack my tongue against my palate a few times in vain; the thick, pasty coating remains.

Squinting to see the clock I notice my husband is sleeping peacefully next to me. It’s 2:11 AM. I don’t remember going to bed. I’m suddenly aware that I’m wearing only a tank top and nothing else. Did Tom and I have sex?  Fragments from the evening flash through my mind like faded old snapshots.  

I remember drinking early in the evening as I prepared dinner.  I was so nice and buzzed by the time it was ready to eat that I decided to sit and observe everyone else enjoy the meal while I continued to nurse my drink. I remember retreating to the office afterwards to listen to music, and hang out on Facebook. How much did I drink? A familiar dread washes over me, and I quickly push it out of my mind; I don’t want to know how much I drank.

Did I give my son his epilepsy meds before bed? Fuck, I can’t remember.  I try hard to come up with more details from the night. Did I ever eat dinner? A dim snapshot of me heating up the spaghetti and meatballs; did I clean up the kitchen, and get the kids clothes ready for school? I draw a blank.

Despite having just been in a dead sleep I feel completely exhausted and lay motionless on the bed, my eyes shut tight. Heartburn rages in my chest and throat and I try to cough it away. I drift in and out of a fitful, un-resting semi-conscious state.  In a dream I’m standing by my kitchen sink with the water running drinking cup after cup of ice cold water. It feels heavenly as it hits my dry insides, but I wonder why no matter how much I drink I still feel thirsty. My eyes startle open and I’m aware of a thin layer of sweat covering my entire body. It’s 2:36 AM.  I sit up straight and my headache roars.

“Here we are again”, I think.

Me and my regrets.

I stumble out of bed and reach for panties carelessly tossed on the floor. There’s a condom wrapper nearby. Yup—we did it last night.  But there are no fuzzy snapshots of that in my mind just yet. With one hand on my forehead and the other gripping the handrail, I hobble downstairs to the kitchen.

The water doesn’t feel refreshing like in my dream. It stirs up the chalkiness in my mouth and throat and feels like lead in my stomach.  How much did I eat last night? One look around the messy kitchen and I realize I didn’t clean a thing after dinner. I force more water down and walk back to my office. I hesitate a moment before I turn on the light, a little anxious about the things I won’t remember from the night before, but terrified of what I will remember once I flip that switch.

Empty beer bottles stand at attention on the credenza behind my desk.  I count 6, hoping against hope I don’t find more lining the floor. Napkins…Crumbs. Before I even check the garbage pail I remember—I binged on cookies while basking in my drunk. No matter how determined I am to eat right when I’m sober, alcohol never fails to completely break down my resolve.  Stashed stealthily alongside the pail I find 3 more empty bottles.

Why did I do this again?

Why do I do this to myself?

I down a handful of Tums and as much water as I can stand and creep back to bed. With some hydration and the fire on my insides put out I feel a little better, and I’m hopeful that sleep will take care of the rest.

If only I could fall back asleep. I keep my eyes closed but it’s pointless; I’m wide awake, trying not to think about what else I might have done that I can’t remember.  

By 7am I force myself out of bed, leaden and exhausted.  Though the pounding in my head has dulled in intensity, it spread to an ache of my entire body. My stomach feels bloated yet hollow, and I’m nauseous and hungry at the same time.  The thought of having to go forward with the day feels like a momentous task in front of me.  

I know my head is going to ache all day.  My eyes will be red, my skin dry and I’ll have diarrhea off and on until after lunch.  My stomach will be raw and burn like an open wound. I know I’ll be so tired all day that canceling some of my plans might be inevitable.

With a familiar dread, I sit down at my computer and wonder what I will find. Who did I drunk-message last night? I pray it wasn't my old boyfriend from high school. Again. How many classic rock YouTube videos did I post?  Oh my God I hope I didn't take a drunken selfie and make it my profile pic. Again.

I hate myself with a vengeance that only someone who abuses alcohol regularly can comprehend.