1 september
I've begun connecting back with the people I left behind in Connecticut. Friendships are slowly coming back. People I once thought would no longer be in my life have surprisingly been popping up here and there. I've told them about transition. I've been honest with them and afraid of the outcome. And the wonders of humanness still amaze me. I have to take a step back and look at it all from a different perspective.
I moved to Denver to escape curious eyes and detrimental statements made toward me. My fear of losing the ones I loved prompted me to lose them on my terms, not theirs. And now, one year later, I discover that their love would still be there. Our friendships are still intact, albeit in a different capacity but nonetheless, they are still there. And I have to wonder where my fear came from. I know a lot of it was that I regarded myself as a sort of freak that had to be shipped off to some leper island, where I couldn't disturb the status quo. Now that I know I am allowed back, I have found myself asking, "Do I stay in Denver or go back home?"
This has proved quite a dilemma for me. By nature, I am a homebody; someone who needs to be around family, around friends, around the familiarity of a hometown. I love the shoreline after a bright and bursting storm; the way the trees create a canopy of dark and sweet smells during the fall; driving the wicked, windy roads of New England; taking the day off from working and heading to Boston for the day, even if it is only to buy a cup of coffee at a Starbucks; seeing a field of wild flowers instead of the endless expanse of concrete and city fumes. I miss passing by my old high school, stopping in for a chat with a teacher; the way that I can drive through downtown in exactly 2.2 seconds; walking barefoot through the sand on the beach at night or diving into the Atlantic on a cold and snowy January night, too inebriated to know better.
These are memories. Memories that make me who I am on this day. Memories that grow smaller and fade a little more each day. My days in Denver, exactly 361 today, are creating new memories. They are part of a new life; a new life unaware of it's past, unaware of the future and dancing so delicately in between the two. Do I stay here and allow these memories to become my past, to give me the identity I have given away a year ago? Do I allow my fear to recede into the recesses of my mind so that I may enjoy the coming winter, full of snowboarding, full of apple cider around a friend's Christmas tree, full of the uncertainty? I feel that if I move back to Connecticut, I will again be traversing America out of fear. But there is that pesky "longing for home" thing, isn't there?
So, what do I do? I have made it one year on the fifth and that is what I promised myself. On September 5th, 2002, I promised to live in Denver one year. To give me a chance to figure things out, to proceed with transition, to be unencumbered with worry about friends and family. I have done that. I have moved quickly through my choices and decisions. I have stayed in one place for longer than I thought was possible. At times, it was hard. It was lonely. It was scary. And yet, there is something telling me my time is not yet finished here. That something else must be accomplished before heading to the east once again. There is a little whisper in my ears urging me to stay. Do I? Do I stay when I know things will become more difficult and I don't have my family and old friends to lean on? Do I have faith enough in myself to make the next leg of this journey alone?
Only time will tell, I suppose.
5 september
On the ride home, I was telling Roosevelt he was a gift to myself because it has been one year since The Move. I did it. I have lived in the same apartment, the same city and had the same job for one year. There is an immense feeling of satisfaction, of complettion, of strength from knowing this. I re-read my last entry and wonder how I could feel the need to pick up once again. It is a comfort to know that I have permanence, that I have a place that is mine to come home to. And now I have Roosevelt waiting for me each night and waking me each morning.
For some reason, I am content. Does your body ever feel electric? As if every gate inside your body is open and you can feel your toes buzzing with life. As if every branch on the way home from work speaks your language. As if the stars sparkle just a bit brighter because they know nothing could make you more happy. As I drove home from work today, Roosevelt and I passed a long freight train. I paused Dave Matthews on my CD player and listened to the clickety-clack of the wheels; the long and sad horn echoing across the roads into the mountains and saw the conductor in the pale blue light of the cabin. I think that's where my feelings of contentment come from: watching people move through life.
So Roosevelt, here's to us. Here's to another wonderful year. Here's to a blossoming friendship. Here's to life.
9 september
I worked an overnight shift last night and for some extremely odd reason, I am not tired. I know it will hit me in a few minutes and my body will all of a sudden feel drained, expunged, full of longing for the bed. I remember why I hated working nights so much; the feeling that you are the only person awake in the blackest part of the night and while you lay alseep while the sun is up, everyone else is living their life. But, I did get a lot of reading done last night (and a lot of paperwork filed so yes, I actually did do some work).
Roosevelt is perched up on my windowsill, soaking up the reflection of the sun from the windows across the parking lot. He seems to be doing well and I smile each night I come home to see him in his somnolent state of plantness. He has become a strange companion and I find myself cooing over him when I wake, stroking his leaves and gently rubbing them. God?! Am I that desperate that my plant has taken the place of a boy? Oh shit...I am turning into a pathetic has been, aren't I? Well, it's better than some people I know. At least I recognize my tragic condition.
Well, what did I say? It was going to hit and it has. I am tired and I am going to bed. In a few hours, I will awake and whisper sweet nothings to...a plant. Ugh.
Tonight, I work third shift. During my twelve hours of unencumbered space, I will be putting my portfolio together and begin putting together a client list. I have three and a half months to get a stable client base and enough work to keep me busy. I will give my two weeks notice at work on December 1st, hop on a train on the 16th, cruise over to New Orleans and then head up to see my family in Connecticut for Christmas, spend New Year's Eve in Vancouver, B.C. and then who knows.
I've seen a lot of the country but never had the chance to really stop and take in the sights. I've driven from shore to shore four times and rode the rail once. But it was always scheduled, or I had to be at a job at a certain time, or I had a lease start on a certain day. Not this time. Having this as a goal will give me the drive to get off my butt with my business and get fully entrenched in it. They say that when you put a goal in writing, you're halfway there.
By the time I hit the rail, I'll be full-time. In a way, that's a bit scary but it's also exiciting. It'll be a month of getting used to IT and settling in. And, then...we'll see.
The only thing that has remained a constant in my life in the past two years has been transitioning. It is the one thing I've stuck with, been serious about, changed my life to make sure it happens. Why can I not bring that same drive to my creative pursuits? Why am I such a pathetic loser?
I don't understand me most days. I seem to let life happen, to grab whatever takes my fancy and ride with it until another thing comes along which is more enticing. Why do I do that? I'm not very pleased with myself lately but, shit...what the fuck am I supposed to do?
Ah, the easy way out. That has always been my way. When something gets tough, what does Haley do? Well, she walks away. It's the whole "fight or flight" game and I run like hell. So much for being a strong person.
What the fuck am I supposed to do?
Get off your ass, you pathetic shit and do what needs to be done. Stop skating by in life.
It was cold on the drive home. It had been hot most of the day; the last of summer's remnants holding on, trying to find it's way back. The wind picked up and a bright moon played hide and seek behind the clouds; a typical scene from "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" and I waited anxiously for some other world being to pop out from behind a tree or howl at the moon. Leaves blew across desolate streets and street lights flickered on and then off. The cool smell of roasting wood on freshly cleaned chimneys swept across my nostrils and ran through my hair. I watched the world turn from Summer into Fall in a moment's time. And I smiled through the entire experience.
I worked at our school yesterday (specifically for the boys of our company; since they are in treatment for sexual offenses, they can't really go to a community school) and I was told to help run the P.E. class. "No problem," I thought, "they're just kids. I'll run 'em ragged and then have an easy day." UM, NO! Instead, they ran me ragged and my body is screaming this morning. Oh well, it was a good day.
And something great happened while I was at the school. I started a design studio back in March and it's been slow in taking off. I've done a few things for friends and for a non-profit company (all pro-bono, just so I can get my portfolio fleshed out). And, I got two new clients and the chance to have my services auctioned off as a fundraiser. I'm very excited.
I put my white, blinking Christmas lights up around my bed tonight when I got home from work. It has turned into a ritual for me. When summer is finally slipped into the bottom drawer and fall takes it place, I put up the lights. They are blinking right now and add a quiet, happy feeling that I remember from my childhood. There is a comfort watching them slowly blink on and blink off.
I am again in my quiet place, taking in all that is around me and not really saying anything back. I think it is good to stop and just listen. It keeps me grounded and sane; allowing others to speak and listening to their bodies; listening to trees creak as they sway; watching a squirrel dart across the backyard fence; smelling, feeling and watching while keeping my mouth shut. The world speaks to us and if we listen close enough, it tells us what to do.
I have always been in tune with what is around me. Whether it is backpacking the Appalachain Trail, content to hear every footfall, every labored breath as I make my way to some unknown destination. Whether it is lying on the sand on the beach, waves tickling the tips of my toes and the quick intake of breath as the coldness hits me. Whether it be watching a mother on the street with a sign begging for help and crying, knowing I can't help. Whether it is sitting on the light rail and staring at my reflection in a blackened window. I think if we allow little moments of truth and clarity to show through the busied lives we lead, we make more of it. We feel more of it.
For most of my adolescent years, I tried hard not to see what was happening around me. To be self aware at that age is to commit suicide. We were all so intent on what others were wearing, what they were saying, who they were seeing. Very few took the time out to concentrate on themselves. And if they did, they usually belonged with the freaks in the art room (or so the case was in my high school).
I happened to be one of them. I loved sitting in that art room. I would grab a drawing board and sketch, or paint or go to the museum our high school had. Life size casts of Greek gods and goddesses adorned the hallways and corners. There was a replica of Homer, with his massive muscles and long off stare and I sat under him many days. Most often times, I missed every class in a day but I didn't care. I sat. I drew. I pondered and questioned and worried and hurt and laughed and felt generally okay with myself in those moments. There was a joy sitting between those statues.
So, tonight, I sit under the glow of my Christmas lights, watching the shadows undulate across my walls, listening to Mazzy Star and remembering Homer.
I haven't wanted to be part of anyone's life for the past few weeks. I've cut off contact with my family. I've stopped going out with my friends. I let the phone ring until the answering machine picks up. I limit my conversations at work. I'm cold, curt and generally inside myself. Where is this coming from? Why do I feel like pushing everyone away?
I think it comes from being vulnerable. I don't like being vulnerable (as I'm sure no one else does either) but I feel my life has been open for the past year. It's the first time I've been honest with those around me; allowing them to see the person beneath my calculating exterior. I'm very good at putting up the front. I should be; I've hidden the fact that I'm a transsexual for twenty-five years. But last year, that front fell. I let myself be me; in all of my glorious inadequacies. I reveled in that. It felt good to stretch and not feel the cumbersome hold of a personality that did not fit me. It was wonderful to see the real me staring back in the mirror.
But lately, I've been craving that security blanket once again. I hate having people know so much about me. Why do I feel that way? It's not something I like being part of me: the need to be honest and unique and yet fear that same individualistic quality.
I suppose what it is is that the stripping away has caused me to need the old blankets of a person I never wanted to be. That, and I feel very ugly lately (so vain of me but we all have our "fugly" moments).
Is it possible to ever live in peace? Countries create war, create strife, feed the anger, fuel the beast and we all watch passively. Women are raped, children are molested, boys are beat...why are headlines all about negatives? Tonight on the 10 o'clock news a woman is shot in the head, last week at work another boy admits to molesting more children, yesterday's newspaper runs the story of a man being shot to death. But they are faceless victims, a word we can all say with ease. It doesn't touch us.
But what if we were to be touched? What if every time you turn on the news, you cry? What if every time you see a lost, homeless man with his house inside a shopping cart, you hand him your loose change? What if you made an effort? What if you TRIED? Could it change something? I hope so...what's the point of calling yourself human if it didn't?
I bought a plant today. He is a Chinese Climbing plant (at least, I think that is what the sales lady called him). I've named him Roosevelt. When I was young I had always wished for a great big white dog who I would name Roosevelt. Of course, this never came to fruition so the name was still an option. Roosevelt seems to me to be a somber plant yet with a slight, knowing smile. I brought him into work today so he could socialize and as I was leaving, I tucked Roosevelt into the front seat; the seat belt buckled softly across his leaves and a blanket wrapped around his planter. I have such an affinity for this plant already. I felt this twinge of motherly love, care and fulfillment as he rode home beside me. He now sits in a very prosperous place, next to my drafting table in the midst of my art supplies. He is gorgeous and I think I'm in love.
TO DO:
10 september
The bug to travel is starting to crawl around inside of me. I can't scratch it but need to so badly. So, I have made a decision.
12 september
I don't know what is going on. I've had all these thoughts and dreams of what I want to do with my life, of where I want to go, of who I want to be. Then, I look around my apartment and see incomplete projects; hopes of doing this, hopes of doing that. There is the comic strip I was so involved in and then let peeter out, the CD cover I have yet to finish for a friend, the half written novel I have yet to get around to complete, the business cards and brochures for a pet sitting business I wanted to start. All these interests and no "sticking power" to stay with any of them.
16 september
I'm twenty-five years old. Still pretty young, right? Then, why is it I feel so much pain in my legs and butt after playing flag football with the boys from work yesterday? My legs hurt and my butt is in pain. I'm in pretty good shape (you know, mountain biking, volleyball, anything to keep me active) but I just don't have the stamina to play game after game after game. God, I'm sad.
18 september
The air is cool and invigorating. Tiny clumps of fallen leaves dance with the wind across the road. I smell the coming of winter wrapping around Denver. I can imagine snow beginning to fall and a horse and sleigh sliding across the fields as if in some Currier and Ives print. I'm slowly aniticipating this season. It is my favorite. The way we all begin to fall into sweaters knit by grandmothers; the way we all hunch our shoulders against the cold; the slowly blossoming displays of holidays to come in store windows; the way we all retreat into our own dens of warmth and friendship.
21 september
I happened upon a site this afternoon (behold). It made me feel...well, beautiful.
23 september
I can't explain what I'm going through. I feel...lost? Is that the right word?