Just a Bit of Warning:

If you don’t have time for a really long post, you might want to save it until you do.

Love,
Leslie

———————–

There was a moment last week, and many of you read it on Facebook, wherein the only words to my post were “I’m going to drive out the Gorge on Saturday and I’ve got an extra seat in the truck. Takers, you know how to find me. It’s not like it’s hard.” There’s been a lot of drama swirling in my head lately (which, I assure you, has nothing to with my current reality and everything to do with creating a new one) (Please don’t call me to ask if anything is wrong) (Really). I am working very hard to let money come to me, instead of working for it.

I know that initially sounds terrible, but I don’t mean it in the absolutely white-entitlement way it sounds (Ok, maybe. Thanks for calling me on my shit. You’re a peach). I mean that I am looking for ways of setting up my web site, my Facebook page, whatever to make money for me when I’m not here (like, at my “real job”). I don’t mean “not working” in terms of being lazy. I mean not working in terms of direct trading of services for dollars.

In my family, we call the ability to do that “sitting around, smoking cigars, and owning stuff.” Actually, that’s not what we call the ability. That is the very definition (for the ENTIRE McLanemy clan) of filthy stinking rich. The first time we heard that phrase, the person telling the story had just come home from a middle school friend’s house, where there was an elevator inside. I definitely don’t have to achieve that level of fame.

I will be happy when we can stop buying spaghetti and mushroom sauce at Dollar Tree like it’s going out of style. I will be happy when I don’t have to wonder if I’m spending too much money on Dr Pepper when COLA is so much less. I will be happy when I don’t think about how to come up with next month’s rent instead of having enough money in the bank to do what we really want. Because what we really want is so much bigger than what we really have.

That’s the immediate dream. That’s the dream that can’t take off soon enough. I’ve been writing for long enough now that I’m not intimidated by people like Dooce, Mrs. Kennedy, and The Bloggess. I look at them and I don’t think “wow… they’re so much better writers than me.” I think “I’m every bit as good a writer as those women, so how did they get to the top of the field? Is it still possible to earn a living while blogging, or has that ship sailed?” So many bloggers that would have made it got wiped out by the Dot Com bust, and I’m not sure that the medium has quite recovered in this economy.

One of two things will happen: 1) Your content is so star-spangled awesome (quite an image, Aaron Sorkin) that advertisers come to you and offer you money to hawk their wares. 2) Your content is so star-spangled awesome that a conglomerate like HuffPost, Gawker, etc. will buy you out.

And technically, those are just the two things most likely to happen. There is a third, but it is so rare that you probably have the same odds of winning the Olympics: your content is so star-spangled awesome that a movie or TV writer sees your stuff and offers you a series with William Shatner.

If the web site takes off and this is actually possible, I do not want to go back to a full-time job. I want to earn a living so that I have time to create a vision and implement it. This web site is ultimately not about me. It is about you, and the wonderful things we can do together if we become a community. That’s the vision. Not a web site, but the online place to go when you need a place… you know? I don’t want this weblog to become all about God, but God appears because I’m interested in the divine. But at the same time, I want this community to have the same feel of a church- where we care about each other and ask what’s going on in each other’s lives.

I will say it again: the vision is not for me. The vision is to create something amazing for you.

The good news is that the web site is taking off and I’ve gotten more love in the last month than I thought was possible in a written medium.

And that’s what I’m thinking as I’m busting my hump up the trail.

I have a mantra:

Stronger than I have to be because I need to be.
Stronger than I have to be because I need to be.
Stronger than I have to be because I need to be.

I am huffing and puffing hard because this is the first time in years I’ve been on the trail. But the mantra keeps up with me, over and over and over and over while Sisyphus laughs in schadenfreude.

Stronger than I have to be because I need to be.
Stronger than I have to be because I need to be.
Stronger than I have to be because I need to be.

The switchbacks are long and not really ready for the season. Obstacles in my way everywhere. Boulders, sticks, burrs where you step and you start looking up because it’s been .8 miles and the waterfall is just about to peek around the corner and I’m not going to make it… not going to make it… until I see you, wrapped in your rain jacket because the force is so great. Walking toward you because I don’t know anything in that moment except “I’m going to kiss her under the waterfall.”

The memory is not the kiss itself. Those kisses are long gone, kept in the memory box under my soul for safe keeping. What’s still under the waterfall is the joy I felt in that moment, similar to being born again.

Stronger than I have to be because I need to be.

Last night, I went to a Beltane party at the Borums’ farm in Newberg, OR. Here is a poem that came out of it. I had to redirect you to a Google Doc (unfortunately), because I don’t think the text editor in WordPress is very gifted with the rolling, sprawling nature of poetry. Enjoy.

Yesterday was brutal. Thursday chewed me up and spit me out. Dana and I had a fight in the morning, which actually brought us a lot closer but left me emotionally drained. Additionally, neither one of us had our psych meds on board, so we were both feeling like death warmed over.

I left her at work and drove to Costco to get our medication refills. And that’s when the bumper decided to come off the back of the car. On the freeway. 55mph dragging the bumper from Clackamas home. So I don’t know that the bumper is dragging. It’s not especially noisy, but all of the sudden, everyone on the freeway seems to be honking at me at once. When I finally realized what was going on, my inner opera voice came out… and by that, I don’t mean that I started singing. I mean that of all the ways my body has to make noise, that opera voice is PRETTY. DAMN. LOUD. Not going to lie, folks. A LOT of people heard me yelling “oh, SHIT!” on the 205. If only it had been during traffic. No one would have noticed. 🙂

So anyway, I find a little bar near the freeway because it’s the closest open driveway. I pull into the lot and call Dana. It’s miserably hot, and a cold beer is literally five steps away. Dana picks up the phone and I’m about to tell her that the car is toast and she’s just going to have to come pick me up when I’m done with my ice cold beer.

Luckily, I had the forethought to see if there was any way I could secure the bumper *right then.* I didn’t have a screwdriver, so I just wedged it as well as I could and told Dana that I was going to try and make it home so I could park the car.

I got home safely, and was starting to transfer all my stuff from Dana’s car to my truck. At that moment, the zipper on my backpack broke.

::facepalm::

I love Cringe, and I’ve always wanted to be on it. This was written when I was about 18.

Dear Fanagans,

There are so many things that Dana and I have shared over the years that have just made us dissolve into giggles, and I think our humor is why we’ll stay together until we die. We are not a complete conversation unless you have both of us, because we talk in tennis matches.

We have joked over the years that we share a brain, and that it was really hard when I lived in Houston. I felt the same way, even though I didn’t love her in a romantic sense at the time. I would like to think that if Dana and I hadn’t ended up together as a couple, we still would have gone down in history as famous friends, like Eleanor Roosevelt and Amelia Earheart… and by famous writer, I want to be known for writing and not how I came to my demise.

I have to believe I’m going to make it as a writer, because even though there is no evidence of it yet, I dream it so that one day, it will happen. It would be my dream to go down in history for writing letters- good letters that shake you up, make you think, and are something worth keeping LONG after you’ve received it. To me, it’s worth it to be vulnerable with more people than just my wife. It creates a safety net of closeness so that I’m not dependent on solely her. Writing gives me the chance to do just that.

I like the safety of the quiet to really think about what I want to say to you. I weight them because a letter, especially a handwritten letter, is one of the most clear ways to say, “I am not putting you on the spot.” Therefore, it tends to lead to people opening up to me, as well. It’s my favorite part of writing- reading the response. It’s often more important to me than what I sent to you. Not to get a response is such a rejection because I know that I’ve probably gone too far and caused injury without ever meaning to do so. I console myself with the thought that all people are slammed to the wall busy, and it’s not personal, and I move on.

And then a few months go by, and I get something beautiful. Equally thoughtful. Often something I will want to keep forever. Every e-mail you’ve ever sent me is still archived. I have a memory box, and every letter that I’ve ever received is in it, except for the ones from what I consider the most damaging memory of my teens. I used to hide my letters in my spare backpack kept in the very back of my closet. One day, the air conditioner went out and water seeped into the backpack quickly. I had friend back then that I used to pen pal with, and every letter she wrote me was in there. These were hard earned letters, sneaked from the mailbox when no one was looking. I’d been poring over them because they were as precious as fine silk. All of them. Gone in a moment. My house burned down when I was in sixth grade, and it was easier to grieve.

I still have the letters I wrote to my first girlfriend, because my letters were so important to me that I couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing them again. As a bonus, she gave me all of hers as well. I was offended at the time that she didn’t want to keep my words, but now I have complete conversations. We’re friends again, so I saved the day. I could show her who she was back then, and she thought it was hilarious. To be almost thirty and reading the cringe-worthy words of her late teens made her laugh.

A few years ago, she and her then-wife came to my apartment in Houston and I got them all out. We sat for hours laughing at each other in the way that only old friends can. She is the reason my ex-girlfriends are *so* important to me. They know me, sometimes better than I know myself, and I never forget it. If you can get over old relationships, it’s worth it to keep former lovers as friends. After the appropriate amount of time for grief has passed, they are invaluable insight into what a crazy betch/deck you are. Make sure you meet and befriend your partner’s exes, too. They are precious gold in dealing with the love of your life you wish you could murder in their sleep.

As a bonus, after a while you realize how awesome it is that you aren’t with them anymore, and that staying together was overrated. Really cuts down on the possibility of an affair, kind of like using teaching kindergarten as birth control.

The other thing is that especially with handwritten letters, I’ve pored over them and when I go back and read them years later, it’s not only wanting to hear your words. It’s wanting to return to the energy space you gave me when I read them.

Love,
Leslie

p.s. Because I think I write letters the best, know that every word in this blog is a personal letter to you.

I can’t think of anything to say today, so you’re just going to have to wander around with me for a while until I find a groove. The post for today was supposed to be a web chat between Dana and me, but that lasted about five seconds before it got really offensive. I am sure that there will be other chat conversations that can be published, but not that one. That one’s just for me. 🙂

What to talk about instead?

Let’s see. Matt is coming over tonight so we can watch Season 5 of Doctor Who. Dana and I have been re-living our whole Who experience with Matt, starting from Season 1, Episode 1. It’s so fun to watch Doctor Who in reverse, because you get to see foreshadowing across seasons that you just have to wonder, “was that intentional?” I don’t know which episode is next, but soon is Vincent Van Gogh, and we will ALL need Kleenex for that one.

I’ve filed for unemployment, created several t-shirt designs, and started my own Fiverr ad, which I hope will add an income stream to my job search. While we’re ok for this month because everything is already paid, I have four weeks to come up with some money. Whether it’s busting my ass flipping houses or sitting at an executive conference table, the deadline is still the same. Trying to think of everything I can do for money (but I won’t do that.). It’s stressful, but not nearly as stressful as it would be if this month wasn’t already paid in full. 🙂

Right now, life is just percolating. Dana is my sun, moon, and stars. As long as that doesn’t change, I can take everything else.

I am reading a novel by Jodi Picoult called “Sing You Home,” (here’s the supporting CD) about a woman who starts out in a straight relationship and has two embryos left from an earlier IVF treatment. She wants to give them to her partner to carry a child, her ex-husband wants to give the embryos to his brother and his wife so that the kid can grow up in a Christian home.

So far, it is a lovely story, and I am enjoying it quite a bit. On the flip side, though, it magnifies every insecurity I’ve ever felt in my whole life, and each chapter feels like a therapy session. It’s all in there- what it feels like to be a gay teen, how scary it is to marry your partner in front of people when you’ve been told your whole life that it’s. just. not. done.

Of course, it’s done all the time, now. It’s just that my brain hasn’t caught up. When I was 14 or 15, a friend got married and the ceremony was simple- saying a blessing over your rings and it’s over. And only in front of each other, because it has to be a secret.

I think unintentionally, that’s how I’m treating gay weddings now. My brain hasn’t flipped the switch that this is now perfectly normal and I don’t have to worry that people are going to laugh at me. The fact that they wouldn’t laugh anyway is moot. It’s not about the guests at the wedding. It’s about me and my fear that all these horrible things will rain down on me if I do.

Part of my family is very traditionally conservative, and part of it isn’t. The choice to get married in front of everyone has me thinking more about how to bring both sides of my family together without hurting any of them.

Plus, Dana’s mom and dad have made it clear that they will not come if we get married, anyway. That’s a whole ‘nother ball of wax, and not necessarily something to be talked about here except that it affects me greatly and weighs on my heart like an anvil.

I also think I want children, but I don’t know for sure. What I Know For Sure (™ Oprah Winfrey) is that I don’t want children *right now.* We would be plunging a baby into poverty which is last on my list of things to do today. So before we get our money squared away, I can’t even dream that far.

But what I do know is that if I had the chance, I’d have a nuclear family in spite of not having a dad, because there would be two primary parents to this child, and a whole host of surrogates.

I want Volfe to teach our kids how to shoot guns, how to play in the dirt, how to fix their own cars from nose to tail so I don’t have to pay for their first dents and scratches as new drivers.

I want my kids to have Karen as a teacher and for them to learn:

Oh isn’t it a bit of luck
That I was born a yellow duck
With yellow socks and yellow shoes
So I can go wherever I choose!

I want Matt to teach my kids to swim and to “do their bubbles.” I want him to show my kids his land and all the wonderful farm animals and plants and gardens where you can wade into the dirt over your toes. I want Matt to read to our kid, because few people I know read more fantastic stories than he does.

I want them to know and love Rev. Tara, who is a blessing all on her own to our family.

I want Stacy Pever Anzick to baptize them and for the story to be that my kid peed all over her, just like I did to Bishop Crutchfield when I was that age.

I want Wayne Borum and SarahAnne Hazlewood to teach my kid how to be evil in just the right ways. I want SarahAnne to make me my first baby quilt, with a note stitched inside about how we’ll always have depression and Dr. Pepper to bind us together. I want Wayne to build something for the nursery that would serve as an heirloom when they have children.

I am also in love with the idea of my sister being an aunt. She’d be the kind of aunt that bought us “my moms rock” onesies and perhaps a “That’s How I Roll” t-shirt with a stroller on the front. She’d love my kid as if it were hers, and the same goes for her kids. I will love them as my own and be the kind of person you can come to when your parents are seriously making you skirt the edge of sanity. I know, I grew up with her.

I want Dana to teach our kids how to grill when they can see over the top of the grill. I want her to give my 16-year-old his first sip of beer while he’s outside grilling with “dad.” In fact, I want her to create for my kids what her dad created for her. I can picture a toddler following her around with a bubble mower, too.

I want to teach my kids the beauty of the Gorge, the newfallen snow on top of Mount Hood. I want my kids to meet everyone who has ever influenced my life, because I think I turned out okay.

I have this life that I cannot reach because I am afraid.

And this book showed me why.

Every step of the journey that Zoe and Vanessa take together is rife with problems no heterosexual will ever have to deal with in this lifetime.

Every step is so much harder, but luckily, getting easier. I hope that gay marriage comes quickly, because I’ve thought of this often. “What if Texas never gets gay marriage and I can’t give my kids the experience of being Texans, too?” What does it mean to be a Texan and raise an Oregonian, which is a much bigger question than my sexuality. 🙂

Like Vanessa, I am 35. Time is running out for a biological child.

We did it, once, Dana and me. We went to an OB/GYN, dressing up because we thought we were going to fall in love with our doctor. My dad and stepmom are both doctors and they’re wonderful. I didn’t have any fear walking in.

That dream was dashed when the OB/GYN was cold and austere. We hated her, we hated the office, and we hated that she pigeonholed us as poor and told us that we couldn’t afford her, so we should just “find a friend and GO HOME.”

I’m going to leave you with that image. I want you to feel all my anxiety bubble up to the top. Want you to feel that my emotions are valid, even if my logic is upside down and backwards. If you have evangelical friends, please share this post. I don’t think that Evangelicals realize how much emotional harm they’re doing when they don’t mean to. They’re scared of what they don’t know.

Just. Like. Me.

People are becoming more and more aware that mental illness is not just psychological. Education is so necessary around this point, even for patients. There may be plenty going on in their lives to cause them emotional distress, but at the same time, I’ve never known anyone who could talk away a chemical imbalance.

And now, a fitting Monty Python quote:

“This new learning amazes me, Sir Bedevere. Explain again how sheep’s bladders may be employed to prevent earthquakes.”

You cannot treat a chemical imbalance if your brain is not making that chemical in the first place. There are three main neurotransmitters that have to be hit to not get depression: dopamine, seratonin, and norepinephrine. If all three aren’t balanced, you will go one of two ways: down into depression or up into mania. For most people that go up into true mania, they cycle. Whether that person’s cycle takes four months or four days, there is an extreme fluctuation in those three brain chemicals that have to get evened out.

Because each person’s mental health is individual to them, I can only talk about what I’ve been through, what’s worked, and what hasn’t.

I didn’t realize that I had depression so much as I realized that I was only getting three productive days per month. I couldn’t function because I couldn’t motivate myself. I was mired in sadness, with no reason for it at all. I didn’t believe I could handle my life, so I didn’t. I was about 19, and my anxiety was trying to kill me. I don’t mean that I was suicidal. I mean that I got panic attacks and the shortness of breath was severe.

After that, I was put on an antidepressant called Celexa. It helped with the depression because it hit my serotonin, but not as much as I needed. I continued with it for years, sometimes adding Wellbutrin to hit dopamine as well.

It wasn’t until 2005 that I saw a brilliant psychiatrist at University of Houston who said, after running some tests, that I had been misdiagnosed, and that’s why I didn’t feel much better. He said that instead of monopolar depression, I was Bipolar II. This meant that I wasn’t cycling into true mania, but often staying up for days at a time. I tapered off everything I was taking and started a cocktail of Lamictal (lamotrigine) and again, Celexa.

That was eight years ago, and I have been mostly stable ever since. Occasionally, I have days where nothing feels right and everybody sucks. Other days, I can’t get enough of being with people and listening to their stories. It’s a cycle, but a small one.

I take medication every day so that the rise and fall stays true to my personality and I can be who I want to be without being too sedated or too miserable to get out of bed.

So many people do not even bother to take the tests to see if they’re depressed, most likely because their insurance is shit and they can’t afford it – or – admitting that you need professional help is hard. You have to admit that you have faults, big ones, and even though you aren’t knowingly causing unrest, you do. Both for yourself and those around you. That’s the danger of not getting mental health treated- you fall into such a hole that you cannot see the ways you are affecting the people you love. You can unintentionally put a severe burden on a relationship if they are close enough to you to see that you need help.

Plus, getting better in terms of mental health is difficult at best… not so much when you find the drugs that work for you and you can stick to them. However, when you are in the throes of finding that “right thing,” you may feel as if the world is ending and a brick keeps hitting your head repeatedly out of spite. Thrown from a third story window. If you’re lucky, you’ll have someone to lean on when all this is going on. I didn’t, because PEOPLE WILL NOT COME AND HELP YOU UNLESS YOU ASK THEM. I went to the “I can handle this” school and quickly figured out that I could not maintain. I was freaking out at everything, and once, on a memorable trip to Homo Depot, thought someone was following me with a gun. Who knows? They could have been, but I sincerely doubt it. I have never been a fan of asking for help, because I’d rather sit in a cave until my brain gets ahold of itself. The problem is that sometimes it takes more time than you can afford to recover. Let people help you, or life will not move forward.

The bitch about crazy meds is that it takes a while for them to work- up to six weeks, in fact. What you do during that time will be anything but normal, and not necessarily on the outside. For instance, you may feel as if you have the type of headache you get after wearing someone’s glasses… except that you can take glasses off.

Acknowledge that you are sick, and get in bed. People will say your pain is not real, and that’s ok. They’re just really uneducated about what it feels like to start psychiatric medication. Assure them that your head feels like it’s coming out of your skull, and that should about cover it.

My best wish is to share some common ground with this article. I think we need to start a dialogue around mental health that is more personal and less emotionally violent than what we’re hearing in the news right now. For most people, mental health is just that. Taking a pill like you would if you had high blood pressure. Believing the media when they act like all people who are diagnosed with mental health issues are thisclose to snapping and blowing up everything.

Don’t listen. Just tell your story, and hope that the people reading it will gain new insight as to what you’re going through.

Most of all, though, I am here to show you that you are not alone, and you will always receive compassion here.

Here, in no particular order, are the drinks I love. This should probably go under “Recommendations,” but I already know what I’m going to do for tomorrow. 😉

1. Diet Coke
   1. I don’t really like Diet Coke that much anymore. I like the memories attached to the Diet Coke. Every singer I’ve ever known has been all about it at one point, it’s the soda we always had at our house growing up, and everyone I know who Drinks Diet Coke drinks a lot of it. So ubiquitous that I can get it anywhere, and if things are quiet, a memory will come to mind, like this joke.

      Q: How many sopranos does it take to change a light bulb?
      A: Two. One to hold the Diet Coke and one to go get the accompanist to do it.

2. Dr. Pepper
   1. Dr. Pepper took the period out of its name in the ’50s, and apparently, I still can’t adjust. My extended family on my paternal grandmother’s side are basically founding members of Waco, Texas, where Dr. Pepper was invented. I would like to believe that my family had something to do with it, because I often call Dr. Pepper the nectar of the gods.
      1. Dr. Pepper Ten, to me, is just as good as the original, and doesn’t leave that syrupy feeling on your tongue.
3. Cheap Grape Soda- All of them
   1. Faygo, Nehi, Safeway Select… doesn’t matter. They all make Purple Cows, the point of the whole exercise. Get the same flavors in a cocktail with vanilla vodka.
4. Beer
   1. I am quite a beer snob, and I could talk about it all day if you’d let me. I took one class on beer, and like everyone who’s ever taken one class of anything, I am an expert. However, when we’re poor, I’m just as happy with a cold can of Hamm’s or Pabst Blue Ribbon. Beer snobbery can only go so far when craft beer is up to ten bucks a six pack. But that’s what I’d rather have, of course. The brands I frequent depend on the season.
      1. Winter- Dechutes Jubelale on nitro and Ninkasi Sleigh’r
      2. Spring- Ninkasi Spring Reign, Widmer anything, Rogue Dead Guy
      3. Summer- Pyramid Apricot Ale, Mike’s anything, St. Arnold’s Krystal Weizen if I’m in Houston, McMenamin’s IPA (sitting outside)
      4. Fall- Ninkasi Oatis, Hopworks Urban Brewery DOA, IPA, ESB, McMenamin’s Hammerhead, and anything Belgian
   2. I could be way snobbier than that, but these are also affordable.
5. Tequila
   1. Being from Houston, Texas, I am very picky. However, I am only picky about sipping tequilas. Throw whatever shit you’ve got into a margarita, Good tequila should never be wasted on serving it with mixers. If you need a good recommendation for a mixing tequila, I am awfully fond of both Two Fingers and Sauza Blue (Pure Agave). For sipping tequila, you can go industry standard and use Patron Añejo. It is also an axiom that for real sipping tequila, it’s going to cost you some bank. Be prepared to spend $50-60 for a bottle. In the times that I have done this, I have hidden it in the very back of the liquor cabinet and drunk it a half ounce at a time so it would last.
6. Cheerwine
   1. It’s frustrating to love Cheerwine so much in the Pacific Northwest. It’s made in N Carolina, so the distribution isn’t exactly national. I can get bottles at Fred Meyer and Pine State Biscuits, but in terms of being able to buy a 12-pack in the grocery store, no dice. They also make a Diet Cheerwine that I would love to get my hands on, but in Portland, it’s as rare as a purse without a bird on it.
7. Aloe Juice
   1. You need it in your bar and in your refrigerator. That stuff is amazing. It’s a quick pick-me-up when it’s hot outside, and excellent with peach vodka or in a margarita. I like the kind with pulp because it adds texture to cocktails and tastes amazing when you’re roasting.
8. Root Beer
   1. Interestingly enough, I’ve always liked root beer, but I didn’t become an aficionado until I worked in a Cajun restaurant. How many of you knew that root beer was cajun? I didn’t. Barq’s was originally a New Orleans company, so we sell it at Tapalaya, along with a selection of small-barrel artisan batches  My personal favorites are Old Dad’s, A&W Ten, St. Arnold’s, and Abita. I don’t like a lot of the Portland microbrews because they are too sweet and go overboard on the vanilla. I prefer a lot of wintergreen. A lot. Did I mention I like wintergreen?
9. Ginger Ale
   1. All of the commercially available ginger ales are pretty good, but there is a clear winner in my book. I am a big fan of all Fentiman’s sodas, but the ginger ale is outstanding. A note for recovering alcoholics who aren’t allowed to have alcohol at all: Fentiman’s sodas are fermented, so there is about the same amount of alcohol as a kombucha tea. If you don’t like ginger ale that much, try a different flavor, like Victorian Lemonade or Dandelion and Burdock.
10. Caffeine
    1. I can’t pick a favorite, so I’ll just list them all. I’m a big fan of Folger’s Black Pearl coffee because it’s cheap and doesn’t taste like it. I’m also an energy drinks fan, and it doesn’t really matter what it is. If it will almost stop my heart, I’m for it. Currently, I drink Viso, and Will the most often. Careful, that shit is toxic. 300mg/per bottle. Handle with care.

Originally posted January 2013

You don’t have to be queer to read it, but this message is not for straight people. This message is for all of my GLBT Facebook friends, because I’m issuing a clarion call. I hope you hear it loud and clear.

WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO ABOUT OUR KIDS?

If there is anything that my friend Diane has taught me over the last 23 years, it’s not to wait for someone else to step in and do something about gay kids killing themselves. It’s our community, they’re our kids, and we are their “parents,” but only for lack of a better term.

We are the non-bio superparents that these kids need because at home, they may not really exist. Coming out may be seen as an invitation for their parents or siblings to commit incest. Coming out may be seen as an invitation for their parents or siblings to commit assault, battery, or homicide.

Less physically damaging, but truly emotionally awful is that coming out may be seen as an excuse to pretend that their child/sibling has died. If you think that I am using hyperbole, it happened to my ex-partner.

If you are a child and GLBT, the chance that your news will be met with violence is high. Look at it this way: when a black child gets made fun of at school, in most cases, he/she comes home to a black family that will raise him/her up and teach him/her to be proud of his/her blackness. What are the odds that you have that type of family life as a gay kid?

There is no shortage of love in this community, but we have been taught to stay away from children. We have been indoctrinated with the falsehood that gay people molest children, and so we ignore them… but not because we don’t love them. Because we don’t want to be seen as inappropriate, so we walk away. I know I’ve felt it at times, and I’m done with that kind of shame. I hope you are, too.

The tables are turning. It continues to get better. But some of the kids we ignored took their own lives.

The children that are taking their lives now could have been us in a different situation. We need to ask ourselves what it was that helped us through, and find a way to take that strength and give it to others.

I am putting out the idea, but I cannot do it by myself. What are we going to do?

WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO ABOUT OUR KIDS?