Why I associate Garth Brooks with my vagina - Living with DSD

Let me preface with a warning.  This blog post is deeply personal.  I held nothing back, so please read with understanding.  

It's hard to put into words what it felt like to go to my first AIS/DSD conference, so bear with me as I try to articulate my state of mind going into this. In order to really make you understand what it was like for me, you need to know my story.  Let me go back, if I may, 16 years.

In 1998, I got sick.  I lost weight, I couldn't keep food down, I was miserable. I was taken to the doctor, where a CT scan was done. As it turned out, I had a stomach parasite.  Easy enough to fix, but they also discovered a mass in my lower abdomen.  The doctor asked my mom if I had begun menses.  I hadn't.  It was my secret.  I used to carry tampons in my bag in case I got it, and so I could give them away if another girl needed one.  Deep down I guess I knew I was different.  After the stomach parasite was cleared up, I was taken to an OBGYN.

I waited in the lobby, legs clinched together tight, knowing what was coming.  I had never had anyone looking at my lady bits up close.  I was mortified at the idea, and even more mortified at the idea that something could be wrong with me. The time went by so slowly.  I sat in the old musty waiting room of the Talihina Indian Hospital counting the perforations in the ceiling tiles. Anything to take my mind far away from that place.   I don't remember every detail about the appointment, but I do remember what they did to me and the overarching theme of what they seemed to think was a valid diagnosis.  I was taken into a small exam room.  It was painted a light blue color with diagrams of reproductive organs posted on the walls.  Oddly, the most vivid detail I remember was the collection of posters on the ceiling to keep one entertained while being poked and prodded in their most secret of places.  As I sat down to take off my pants, the paper crinkled beneath me.  I put the gown on and laid back on the table, awaiting the doctor and nurse.  Tears slowly streamed down my boyish face.  They wouldn't let my mom in the room because it would be too crowded.  I was a little thankful as I didn't want her to be present for the embarrassment I was about to endure.  In his middle eastern accent, the doctor told me to focus on the posters on the ceiling.

Can we discuss the awfulness of this?

 I shit you not when I say that I'm pretty certain these are two of the exact posters on the ceiling that day.  That's right.  I will forever associate Garth Brooks with my junk.  As I laid on the table, my knees were tight together.  I was shaking, crying.  I didn't want this.  The doctor came in and gave me a couple of taps on the thigh to indicate what he wanted me to do.  He tried inserting the speculum.  The cold steel ripped through my labia like a cold knife.  That was as far as he got.  He told me I was making things difficult, so he would have to do a digital exam.  So, the doctor hands the nurse the speculum, and with one hand on my knee, inserts three fingers into my vagina. There was no warning, there was no foreplay, there was nothing but a sudden thrusting of three fat sausage fingers rooting around inside me.  He pointed his fingers upward and pressed down on my abdomen, declaring to the nurse that it seemed like everything was there. They left me to get dressed. I sat there wiping up my own blood off the table, embarrassed, ashamed, and so very alone in that moment.   As I finished dressing, the nurse came back in with my mom.  She sat down on the little black stool waiting for the doctor with me.  I wiped the tears from my eyes as she told me to suck it up and get over it.

 WARNING:  The following will induce deep murderous rage.... 

The doctor came back in.  He sat down across from my Mom, addressing her as if I weren't in the room.  As he spoke I stared at the bloody paper that was gathered at the foot of the exam table, awaiting disposal.  "Ms. McBride, your daughter seems fine.  I believe the reason she hasn't started menses is because she's such a tomboy that she's dreading womanhood.  This seems to be a psychosomatic issue.  I'm prescribing her Zoloft.  Also..."  He turned to me. "Perhaps if you bought her some frilly dresses and better fitting shirts, perhaps something with a floral print, she might begin to feel more feminine."  He then addressed me directly.  "You know, you could run some laps at your high school track. Start out at running one lap, then two the next day, each day increasing.  Over time you will take on a more supple feminine form.  This, in conjunction with the medication should alleviate this sexual identity crisis you're having.  That should get you on your way to menstruating like a normal girl."

Me at 16.  Definitely needed more flowers n shit.

I don't remember much else about that appointment.  I do know my Mom filled the prescription, but ended up throwing it away.  My mom called the hospital and filed a complaint.  As it turns out, that doctor was an interim doctor and was just filling in for the normal OBGYN who was on vacation.  I had a second appointment on what seemed like the very next day with a female doctor.  I remember sitting on a chair with my knees to my chest yelling that they wouldn't be touching me.  The doctor told me that wouldn't be necessary and scheduled me for another CT scan.  I'll spare all the details, as I don't remember much.  I was told I had a mass in my abdomen and it could be cancer.  I remember seeing a geneticist, and then I remember having surgery to have a "hysterectomy".  Looking back at the doctor's notes, it appears that my diagnosis was disclosed to me, which I don't remember. They told me that due to my condition that I likely had too small a vagina and I would need surgery before becoming sexually active.  Also, I would never be capable of having children.  That's it.  No counseling, no follow up, just, "hey, sorry you're not normal.  You had a bit of a cancer scare.  Oh yeah, you're not physically capable of sexual intercourse without expensive surgery.  Have a nice life."

So fast forward a few years.  I'm living in my own apartment in Oklahoma City.  I was moving some boxes when I dropped one.  Papers came spilling out and on the top of the pile was this:

At first I couldn't fully comprehend what I was reading.  Male?  What?  Suddenly the memories came flooding back.  Perhaps somehow I had blocked this from my memory. I called my cousin Amy, who graciously explained the condition to me. Hour long chats led to all night sessions of googling, reading medical journals and looking at pictures of vaginas to determine if mine looked normal. The images online associated with Androgen Insensitvity or "Testicular Femization" as they used to call it, are horrifying.  They objectify these poor patients under the guise of scientific curiosity, as if they're not human.  Naturally, I felt like the scientific community was not a safe place for a freak like me.

Most people at 21 are partying, drinking, having some fun, not thinking about how they'll manage to live their life without the possibility of sex and normalcy.  Since I was really young, I wanted a family.  I always felt like I had been wronged by being born into the family I was born into.  I wanted to right that cosmic wrong and be the mother to my children that I never had.  The thought of not only never being able to have that, but also having to live my life alone and without physical intimacy made me want to die.  I couldn't afford a surgery.  I didn't even know how bad my condition was.  I couldn't bring myself to explore my own genitals to figure it out. There was a shame and secrecy about my body that I hid to everyone around me.  To most I seemed to have my shit together.  I was working as a department manager at Wal*Mart, I had a nice apartment, I was going to school, and I was really active in the church.  Inside I was battling the idea of killing myself.  I didn't date.  Ever.  The thought of progressing to that point with anyone was terrifying, and in many ways still is because I still carry the trauma of those years with me.  What was I to tell a partner, how would he react?  I spent the next few years in total secrecy, hiding behind the legalistic abstinence and sex shaming culture of the church.  I feigned normalcy by having overblown crushes on boys at church, at work, at school, etc.  I had a penchant for unavailable men because deep down it protected me from ever having to have a real relationship.

 In 2009, there was an international obsession with genetic testing in olympic athletes.  It had been determined that a young girl from South Africa who appeared very masculine had been found to have high levels of testosterone in her system, and was deemed to be at an unfair advantage.  She was stripped of her medals.  I identified with that girl.  But I couldn't imagine how she felt with everything being so public for her.  So I started opening my mouth.  I started talking about my condition, known as Androgen Insensitvity Syndrome.  I became an advocate for this South African woman who faced ridicule.  By reaching out online and commenting on news posts to try and educate people that it didn't matter how high her testosterone levels were if her body was insensitive to them.  I made a handful of friends that way, people who were in the same boat.  We never met in person, we just emailed back and forth about our struggles.  After eleven months of embarrassing speculation, testing and not being allowed to compete, Caster Semenya was given back her titles and medals and allowed to compete again.


In that time that I began to identify with Caster Semenya. I became outspoken, I talked of my struggles, I talked of my shame, and of my fear.  I finally made steps to start addressing it.  I had been seeing a therapist for some months when I finally took the plunge.
I hadn't been examined since my surgery at fifteen, but I needed to know what my downstairs situation was. The anxiety was unbearable.  Over the years I had tried to go in to have pelvic exams, and I was always met with medical curiosity as though I was a rare unicorn only heard of in literature and never seen in the flesh.  I always ended up literally running out of the doctor's office, ashamed. However, this time I was determined and I had several months of counseling to help me gain the courage.  I went to my GP and I said, "Dr. R, I want you to look at my vagina."  He seemed puzzled by this request as there was no glaring medical reason for it.  I explained the situation to him and he referred me to a specialist.  The specialist was a very genteel black man with a bit of a lisp.  As I readied myself for the table I sat there with tears streaming down my face, unsure of what the day would unfold.  This time there were no Garth Brooks posters and no cute kittens.  Just a kindhearted nurse who held my hand and a very gentle and communicative doctor.  I felt a stinging pinch as he inserted the speculum slowly.  I clenched the side of the table, my tears growing in size, the pain strengthening.  The doctor began to take some swabs and feel around inside me with his fingers to determine "suitability for penetration".  He pulled his head out from under the paper sheet that was draped over my legs, looked me right in the eyes and exclaimed ; "I have good news!  I'd say you're adequate!  GENEROUS EVEN!"  Both excruciating humiliation and  intense joy flooded my brain.  The doctor and nurse left me to get dressed.

As I sat on the edge of the table, tears seemingly interminable, the doctor came back in and took my hands.  As he sat directly across from me he said something I will never forget.  "Ms. Brooks, I don't know who lied to you or why, but your condition hasn't affected your ability to function.  Go, live your life.  Meet a boy, have a lot of sex.  You have my permission to live a normal life.  Honestly, you could never tell them truth, they'll never know."  There was still a bit of shame in the encouragement not to disclose my condition, but I can't describe the relief I felt in that moment. I felt as though I had been given life, like I was being rescued from certain death.  No amount of embarrassment in that moment could negate the validation I felt.  I'll spare you all the details, but everything works just fine.  Gentlemen, I'm taking applications now...

Anyway, all this leads up to me finally getting up the nerve to attend an AIS/DSD conference. Which happened to be in Burlingame, which is just a short drive down the peninsula.  I can't tell you the joy of meeting so many men and women with such similar stories about being lied to, about hiding in shame, about the isolation.  These are common themes.  Listening to other's stories really allowed me to identify what aspects of my story were still holding me back.  Yay!  Things to focus on in therapy and in relationships!  I also got to meet some of the most amazing people.  There's an unspoken bond.  "Hey, you're different like me, I know how you feel!"  It's just a completely healing experience.  Also, seeing the next generation of kids being brought up to embrace their difference and be empowered to either live with or without normalizing surgeries and being allowed to make their own decisions about their bodies made it feel like everything we had all been through was worth it.  Our struggles and our voices will hopefully keep these things from happening again to the younger generation of kids with DSDs.  They're able to grow up embracing who they are, and make a decision as to what gender they want to identify as, rather than being assigned one.  Today the world is much more open to ambiguity.  The blurred lines of sex and gender are becoming less and less visible as people are finally accepting that a binary system isn't an all inclusive one.  I have come out of this conference a better version of myself, and I look forward to being a voice.

To those of you who gave me money to help me attend this conference, I am so deeply grateful. I wish I could hug you each and every one.  If you'd like to make it so that others like me, or young people, or families with diagnosed little ones can attend a conference, please feel free to give.  We're still a few thousand from our goal for next year's conference in Cincinnati.  We don't want anyone to not be able to experience the healing of  a conference like this because of money.  So if you're feeling generous, there are a couple ways to give. 

You can give any amount you'd like on our website:

http://www.aisdsd.org/contribute/

Or, you can give by receiving! Amazon will donate 0.5% of your purchase a charity if your choice which you designate.Please choose us, the next time you buy from Amazon. Thanks!

http://smile.amazon.com/ch/37-1407648

72 Hours

You know that person, the one who always feels the need to burst your bubble, to take the joy out of every fucking thing? We all know someone like that, and we do our best to avoid them. Depression is a lot like that person, but as hard as you try, you can’t lose depression’s number, and you can’t ensure that depression isn’t invited to things. Depression is always there, making everything in life ugly, unenjoyable, and meaningless. It’s difficult to describe to someone who has never suffered clinical depression what it’s like. I remember thinking, “why don’t those people just get out of the house, read a book, watch a funny movie, or do this, or do that?” The naivety of most people who have never suffered from depression themselves is astounding. People think you just need to cheer up, and it’s not quite so easy. So here's my experience, or just a snippet of it, really. So judge me how you may, but I'm going to choose to be transparent about the dangers and harsh realities of a major depressive disorder.

Growing up, I was always made to feel like a burden. I was certainly unplanned, and I always felt unwanted. Throw on top of that the baggage of thirty years of life, a fucked up family, a high stress job, and you get a general feeling of worthlessness. I’ve never been the type of person to feel like death is the best option, but sometimes, when you’re in that moment where the pain is so intense, you’d do anything to make it stop. For me, the moment passes quickly, and it’s never more than a fleeting thing. This time, however, it was much worse. It was as though Nigel Tufnel had turned my anxiety up to eleven. I found myself in downtown San Francisco, standing at an intersection, thinking about which car looked like it might kill me the quickest. I had a powerful urge to walk right out into traffic. I took a step into the gutter, a car honked at me, and I immediately stepped back up onto the curb. No one around me really noticed, to them I looked like an impatient pedestrian, waiting for the light to change.

Living in a major city is difficult like that. It’s easy to go unnoticed, and the opportunity to die is everywhere, if you set your mind to it. In that moment, when I stepped back up onto the curb, some little bit of sanity took hold of me and shouted, “CALL SOMEONE, CALL ANYONE!” I pulled out my phone, and with trembling hands I typed out the words “Feeling kind of suicidal right now.” In less than a minute, my phone rang. I have never been so happy to hear that sound. I sat on the sidewalk with my knees to my chest and I sobbed into the phone. My friend on the other end has been there, and she knew what to do. Sarah kept me calm, she told me to tell her exactly where I was, and then she contacted my doctor and another friend who was nearby. Seemant was there within twenty minutes, and he stayed by my side while we waited in the ER. My breathing was labored, I had tears streaming down my face nonstop, and there was a guard at the door to make sure I didn’t try to kill myself in the hospital room. I had become that person, the high risk patient who has to be watched by a fucking guard. I was a crazy person. It was all completely called for though. I had tried to strangle myself in the backseat of the car on the way to the hospital. I just wanted the pain to stop, and it didn’t matter how.

I kept repeating to myself that I was just being dramatic, and that I just wanted attention. That was the voice of my mother in my head, though. The doctors in the ER placed me on a 72 hour psychiatric hold, as I had expected them to. The goal had been accomplished, to get me somewhere where I would be safe from myself.

If you’ve never been in the psych ward of any hospital, it’s quite a bit like you might imagine. The rooms are bare, with no televisions, no electronics of any kind really. You know, you could strangle yourself with the cord. The door to the bathroom is short, so that if necessary, someone can look in on you, to ensure you’re not lying in the shower with your wrists slit… not that you find a goddamn thing in the place sharp enough to do that with. Every thing had been stripped out, except for two beds that sat low to the floor, and a bookshelf secured to the wall. That’s it. The room was an expanse of sad, lonely echoes, and a roommate that I could easily deem to be just the slightest bit more crazy than myself. The first night was the hardest. They took my phone away. My immediate reaction was that these bastards must be sadists who like watching suicidal people get pushed even further to the brink. They also put the words "adult mental" on my bracelet.  That was probably the most alienating part of the experience.

I laid in my bed in the dark, listening to the snoring stranger next to me. I didn’t sleep at all, I just lay there, feeling nothing. The next day, I talked to a psychiatrist, she evaluated me, and we talked about what led me there. She deemed me to be not crazy enough to be held for the full 72 hours, and told me I could leave tomorrow. So I went back to bed, and I watched the rain gather on the window. I can’t really say what that’s like. I felt nothing. I was just existing. Seemant and Aaron came to visit in the afternoon. We mostly sat making small talk for the half hour or so, and they knew that’s all I needed. I just needed them to be there, to acknowledge that someone cares. After they left, I had a bit of energy, so I took my first shower and promptly went back to bed. They returned during the evening visiting hours and brought me chocolate, which was promptly confiscated from me. That was the saddest feeling for me, being treated like a prisoner. However, the longer evening visiting hours left me feeling much better. I needed my little chosen family to be present. Matt’s plane landed in San Francisco, and he took the BART directly to the hospital to meet everyone there. Aaron and I sat on the couch my head on his shoulder, with Seemant squeezing my arms. I felt loved, for the first time in a long time. I suddenly felt like myself. The next morning, the doctor retrieved me from breakfast to tell me I was most definitely going home. So here I am writing this.

What gets someone to this place, walking out into traffic on purpose? It's complicated, but I'll say this... I'm not crazy, I just buckled under the weight of stress. I'll also say that in spite of everything, I can definitively sit here today and say that I have finally met the people who understand and care for me better than anyone else has ever been capable. They are my family. You'll never find an assembly of people more odd and mismatched, but we work. There's the blue haired lesbian, the Mormon, the little brown guy, me, however you may classify me, and there's the dramatic, but loveable redhead and her nerdy husband. Somehow, we've all managed to find one another, and help each other through the hard times with nothing but love and understanding. So... Since I have little positive to say about the struggles I currently find myself in, I'll focus on that. I am loved, and that's why I'm alive today. 

Note: NOT HELPFUL ADVICE.

If you know someone who is depressed, please please please don't tell them to snap out of it, or get some exercise, or whatever other unhelpful things you may be inclined to say. Just love them, be there for them, and understand that there's nothing you can do or say to help, only things you can do or say to make it worse, and know that depression won't ever leave, it will just come in waves. 

My Idiot Brother

When I was growing up, there were two indisputable facts about my world. I had one sister, and we had different dads.  Some summers she would spend her time in Oklahoma to visit her Dad, and I stayed home with Mom.  I envied that time my big sister spent there.  From my perspective, it seemed like she had two lives, and I was super jealous of her and what, to my young mind, seemed like something awesome.  I long dreamed of the day I would meet my father, but I never imagined that I had other siblings.  When I met my dad (which you can read about here), I learned that I had five half brothers and another half sister. My family tree exploded overnight.  Learning their names was overwhelming.  I spent a lot of time repeating the list of names to myself.  Jeff, Jonathan, Amber, Dustin, Jonathon, and Montana. Yes there are two Jons in there.  Also, oddly enough, both of my sisters are named Amber. In all the years since then, there are still two of my siblings I have never met.

3 days in a truck, and
no one was murdered

The first of my siblings I ever met was Jeff.  I was driving from Colorado to Washington and I stopped in Boulder to see him.  I can't tell you how strange it is to meet some random stranger and think, "This is my brother?"   It's the strangest and most wonderful feeling.  I felt a piece of me kind of fill in. We kept in touch and talked on the phone over the years, and he came to visit me in Oklahoma City once, but we weren't ever really particularly close.  As with all my siblings, we were two people, related by chance, connected by common DNA.  When I moved to San Francisco, Jeff was in town and dropped in to visit me.  In the days following that visit, Jeff managed to get himself a job offer in San Francisco as a bike messenger.  For the first time in adult life, I was living in the same city as one of my siblings, and I am so thankful to have had that time with him.

Let me explain Jeff to the best of my ability. He is an eternal child with an ephemeral sense of responsibility.  Sometimes it's the most annoying trait you can imagine.  However, most of the time it's a wonderful thing.  Jeff lives for the moment, it's his thing.  He just lives for what he wants to live for, and he never gives two shits about trying to conform to some societal norm that wouldn't bring him any happiness.  Here is a man, who at nearly 42, lives on a boat with a couple other guys, rides a bike wherever he goes, and makes new friends every day.  He is never stuck in an office against his will, he never feels tied down to any one location for a length of time.  He lives for the moment, and he enjoys life.  I desperately wish I could do that sometimes, but I really like being mostly able to pay my bills and having a nice place to live.  Jeff just doesn't care about that. I think that surviving Lymphoma had something to do with that.  He just appreciates each breath.

When Jeff came to San Francisco, we had spent a minimal amount of time together. Over the coming months we got to know each other well.  We learned a lot about each other, and he taught me about his passion, bicycles.  From day one, he had me hooked.  I never thought my fat ass would get on a bike and enjoy it.  Jeff made it something fun for me, and I fell in love with bikes.  We would peruse Craigslist and eBay together and look for vintage components and other parts, discussing our dream bikes, and dreaming about someday opening a bike shop together.  Jeff gave me something to look forward to each day, he got me excited about something.  I started riding my bike to work, and going for leisurely rides along the Embarcadero, up to Golden Gate Bridge.  Even now that I'm back in Oklahoma, I've entered my first bike race.  This is all thanks to Jeff.  He gave me a reason to get back into something healthy, and something we could share.

During my stint in the Bay Area, Jeff and I saw each other just about every day.  We got to spend a lot of time together, watching tv, playing cards, drinking beers, riding bikes, and arguing like the siblings we never got to be. I had moments of complete rage with Jeff where he just drove me up the wall, but in the end, the most surprising thing happened.  I found one of my best friends for life.  The thing I love most about my brother isn't his devil-may-care attitude toward life, it's not his ability to make friends with a stop sign, or his ability to charm his way into any situation, it's how he loves those closest to him.  My brother would do just about anything for me, if it was within his means.  He takes a lot of abuse from people, and he just takes it, cool as a cucumber. Now I realize how much that meant to me. The best example of this was the day I broke his bike...


Jeff relies on his bike not only as transportation, but as his livelihood.  He needs it to do his job.  One day, Jeff and I were sitting in the coffee shop and he disappeared for a minute to find a random stranger to bum a cigarette off of.  I thought it would be funny to ride off with his bike, and see what exactly he might do in discovering it's absence.  I didn't think this through very well.  I forgot to take into account that his bike's gear system doesn't work quite the same way mine does.  Where my geared bike's pedals spin freely, his single speed fixed gears move as the wheels do.  I didn't make it ten feet before I crash landed his bike with all the force of my fat ass landing right on his handlebars.  If this were my bike, there would have been screaming and cursing.  Not Jeff.  He asked if I was okay, helped me up, then he assessed his bike.  I bent his handlebars, still no reaction, just a deep drag on his cigarette and a shrug of the shoulders.  It was simply a new puzzle to solve.  Just a quick ride to the bike shop where I ordered him a new set of bars, and he borrowed a temporary set from his friends at the shop, never a harsh word about my stupidity.  That's what I love the most about him.  He is kind-hearted, full of childlike curiosity, quick to forgive, and smarter than your average bear.

My brother was the man in my life for the last year, he was the person I could always count on, and he's the person I want to be like when I grow up. So in all the shit that happened in the last year the most positive thing to come out of my year in California is the relationship I was able to foster with that big dummy. There's something strange and stupendous about finding your long lost siblings.  There's something even more amazing in fostering a meaningful relationship with them. I love my brother, and I miss him each and every day. May each and every one of you find something so lovely as sibling rivalry.

Defeated? I think not.

When I conjured up this dream of moving to San Francisco, I imagined that if I ever returned to Oklahoma, it would be with my tail between my legs and a bruise on my ego.  Now that I'm back in Oklahoma City, that's not entirely the case.  The question I'm asked most often in reference to my returning home is "Why?  I thought you loved it there."  I did and still do love it in San Francisco.  It's an amazing city with so much beauty, and so many wonderful little bars and restaurants, and quirky people.  When stepping off BART and heading up the escalator to Market Street, I always felt that in that moment, I was where I belonged.  I've never really felt that anywhere else.  I felt that the very first time I visited SF nearly ten years ago and that has never faded.  The other side of the answer is that I wasn't happy with where I was at in Oakland.  I felt completely trapped there.  Honestly, not being in San Francisco felt like torture.  It was $7 round trip to get into the city, and when $7 decides whether you eat tomorrow or not, you don't go anywhere.  You stay in your apartment that smells like cat pee and you watch way too many episodes of Downton Abbey.

Oakland is unique.  It has a lot going for it.  There's First Fridays, Art Murmer, the Farmer's Market every Friday, year round, and there's also the gorgeous Lake Merrit and the many other hiking trails in the East Bay. However, when it's not exactly what you wanted, you can't help but feel like it's the poor man's San Francisco.  For one, while smoking pot is a pretty common outdoor activity in San Francisco, Oakland has a permanent haze over it.  Second, hipsters, EVERYWHERE.  Jesus, if I had to look at one more douche bag in a plaid shirt with suspenders and a bow-tie riding around on a tandem bicycle without a partner, I was going to go start picking people off with a bee bee gun.  "Suspenders!?" thwomp. "Bowtie?! thwomp. "Old timey hat or trucker hat?!" thwomp.  It was too much some days.  The occasional, hipster isn't a bad thing.  I have a couple of hipster friends, but so many of them are just trying so desperately to be cool, relevant, etc.

This guy probably drinks PBR,
hangs out at Awaken Cafe in Oakland,
and  writes with a typewriter that he
brings to the coffee shop with him.
He probably also rides a fixie
and/or a tandem bicycle.

I told everyone when I left not to worry, that I was indeed ecstatic to return home to Oklahoma. The truth is, I was ecstatic, honestly.  But here's why, and it may not be for the reason you think; As a dear friend pointed out, and as I discovered through self reflection, I find myself to be happiest when I have something to obsess over.  Yes, this just became a self psycho-analysis.  Occasionally, when things aren't great, that something  to obsess over might need to be manufactured.  I know this is a flaw, and this is what therapy is for.  Hey, at least I'm aware of that shit. Previously, I obsessed over my religious beliefs, over renovating my house, my work, my friends, my boyfriend, my car, Ziggy (Yes, he has a name, and yes, it's after the computer of the same name on Quantum Leap. Go ahead and laugh.) Most recently, I obsessed about my move to San Francisco; where I would live how I would get around, where I would work, etc.  I romanticized the idea.  Well, the same thing happened in coming home.  I was in such a rut that I became obsessed with the idea that this would fix my problems.  In some ways, coming home did do that.  It fixed the cat piss soaked, pigeon infested attic apartment problem, it fixed the "my boss is such an asshole" problem (more on that later), and the "I can't afford to eat" problem. The truth is, whatever my reasoning however misguided that anyone else may see it, I'm glad I'm back here, I needed to be here.  I needed to get out of he situation I was in. And most importantly, I needed to be grounded with the people I love most.

In my short time home, I've come to the realization what made me leave in the first place was the support of people who encouraged me to follow my dream. There are, of course, the naysayers, those who think I'm irresponsible, etc.  But seriously, fuck them.  Life is a journey, and whatever makes you happy might take some time.  A good friend said to me a few days ago, "Sometimes we don't know what the right choice is until we make the wrong one."  Granted, I think that in that moment, coming home was the right choice for me, but it isn't necessarily right in the long term.

So, the short of it...  I'm happy to be in Oklahoma City. There are some wonderful people here that I love dearly, and I've missed them so much.  I'm glad to be here for a short time, but I will be returning to San Francisco to continue my dream.  It might be a month, it might be six, who knows?  I'm using this time to get my shit together, find the right job, save some money, and spend some time with friends.  I'm filling my tank, so to speak.  So no hate Oklahoma, you are my roots.  I'm not leaving because I don't want to be here, I'm leaving because being away from there reminds me how much I wanted to be there in the first place.

2012... What a jerk

Oh my, it’s been a long time. I wish I could say I’ve been too busy to blog because I’ve been living a fabulous San Francisco life.  I haven’t.  As a matter of fact, this has been one shitty year. Honestly, I’ve had worse times in my life.  However, I set out in 2012 to live with more intensity, to accomplish goals, to become a better person. I didn’t do much to accomplish any of those things.  I’ve been a lazy bitch. Here’s the skinny on what went down in 2012 (or what didn't). 

When I came to San Francisco in April, I was bursting with naïve optimism.  I had lined up an awesome apartment, met some wonderful new peeps, and I had found a job that seemed to be a good opportunity.  It turned out to be four months of verbal abuse with low pay and high stress.  Mostly that stress came from fear of being yelled at at any moment by one of the most intimidating, awful people I've ever met. My boss even said in a meeting one day that he wanted to put a sign up in the office with a picture of the Auschwitz sign that says "Live to work, work to live."  That was my cue to get the fuck out.  I spent April-August in a miserable work situation that made me hate my very existence.  I cried most days wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into.  Not only was my job shit, but the stress made me a rotten bitch who was difficult to live with.  My poor roommate bore the brunt of that abuse.  In my defense, I still maintain that he is a disgrace to gay men.  Seriously, who doesn’t wipe kitchen counters?!  I kid.

My now former roommate is a great guy, and he really made my early months in SF bearable.  In spite of how much better my life was in the evenings by watching endless episodes of Weeds, I nearly returned to Oklahoma.  Nearly.  When it became apparent to my employer that I didn’t operate well under the model of fear based motivation, they laid me off.  It was the single most liberating moment of 2012 for me. I knew immediately what had to happen.  I had to move out of my apartment and figure something out. My upstairs neighbors were oh so gracious to have me in their home for a little over a month, and they still speak to me!   I spent that month looking for work, barely making it on what little unemployment I was receiving. When it was time to move on, I went to Sonora, a couple hours from the city, to stay with my Mom.  I spent a few weeks there until I received a job offer in Oakland. That was actually a great time for me and my Mom.  We were two bachelorettes conquering the DVR and creating memories via the Wii.  After receiving a job offer, I realized I didn't have enough money to even get to the bay area, let alone enough to sustain me until I received my first paycheck.  I swallowed my pride and went to emailing a bunch of very dear friends in Oklahoma who all contributed over $1000 inside of 48 hours.  It was that moment that shaped my outlook for the coming year.  In spite of everything, I am loved, and I am not alone.  

In my search for a place to live, I met a wonderful couple my age through the Bay Area Reddit Users Group (mad shout out to the fantastic Sam and Joe!) and they offered their spare room for rent (seriously, I love the internet).  It was only for a short term, but it was something, and it allowed me to be in Oakland to start my new job in early October. By November I had found a new apartment sans roommates.  So here we are.  I live in the attic of a 140 year old Victorian in Oakland.  My San Francisco dream didn’t turn out the way I thought.  I’m in Oakland, just across the bay and I can’t help but feel like I’ve been thrust into purgatory.  Although it’s just a waiting period, I signed a year lease, and I plan on using that year in Oakland to get my shit together so I can return to the city I love.  Oakland isn’t so bad.  It’s flat, which is great for this fat ass who has taken up a bicycle over a car, and the gang violence they talk about on television is really isolated to certain parts of the city, which I am not in.

In spite of all the things I cut myself down for not having accomplished, I must point out that I accomplished one huge part of my dream.  I moved to San Francisco.  I can’t believe that I’m here. Every time I get off the train and step off the escalator onto Market Street I get this brief high.  It’s just an amazing place.  It’s everything Oklahoma wasn’t.  I feel, for the first time ever, that I am exactly where I need to be.  While it’s difficult and I have my moments of loneliness and bitterness accompanied by doubt, fear, and regret, I accomplished something huge this year, and I’m pretty fucking proud of that.

So here’s to 2012, I’m glad you’re gone.  And here’s to 2013, may we always remember that life is what we make it. We control our destinies, and no one else can stop us if we know what we want.

So here are my goals for 2013:

Stop worrying-

A friend of mine pointed out to me how much I worry.  It's stuck with me, and I'm trying really hard to overcome that.  Here's to a worry free 2013. 

Foster deeper, more meaningful friendships-

Most importantly, I need to foster deeper relationships with the AMAZING people I’ve met since arriving here.  I need to make more time to spend time with these remarkable people.   

Be… not a fatass-

As I say every year, I need to lose weight.  I’m a fat ass. There’s no way around it.  I know it, everyone around me knows it, let’s just get past the niceties and point out the elephant in the room. I have no real plan, but to be more conscious of what I eat.  I’m hoping that having adopted a new mode of transportation will help with this.  I'm not going to say that my goal is to lose weight, so much as it's to make healthier decisions. 

Date-

Seriously, It’s been 14 months since I had my heart ripped from my chest. I think most days that I’m ready, but I find myself still talking about him, or even blaming him for the way things have turned out for me. Then again, it’s a heart knowledge versus head knowledge.  I know that him leaving was the best choice for both of us.  I tell myself that daily, but you know.  It’s hard ‘n shit (that's for you Dan). But it’s obvious that it’s time to move on. I’m hoping to do that in the coming months.

Write/Blog-

I want so badly to write more, not just blog, but I think I might finally carve out  some time to write at length about my experiences with having AIS. It’s something I’ve become increasingly more open about and I’m passionate about educating people on the variations in how we each experience the very mutually exclusive male/female gender farce.  I’m quite obviously decidedly female, as AIS doesn’t really allow for too much gender ambiguity.  However, I have made some wonderful transgendered friends in San Francisco who, in spite of what my Oklahoma roots have taught me, are well adjusted, wonderful people who happen to have been born into the wrong body.

Sell my car-

The most painful decision I’ve made since I’ve been here is that I no longer need  my car.  I have decided to sell my dearest Ziggy.  We had a good ride, now it’s time for me to ride my bike off into the sunset and rid myself of the insurance and loan payments.

Pay off my credit cards. Again. –

Seriously, do we ever fucking learn?  Also, I plan on making a dent in my student loans.

Stop being a jerk-

Meaning… follow through with promises.  I’m terrible at that.  Terrible.  I have no excuse, except that I’m a lazy bitch. 

Routines and Things

I’m here.  I’m here in the wonderful city of San Francisco.  I’m in a little café in the Mission district with the aroma of hot panini sandwiches hanging on the air like a thick, delicious fog.  I’m surrounded by all kinds of interesting folks.  In the corner is a gentleman who I’m positive is a spy of some sort.  He keeps looking at the door like he’s expecting his evil arch nemesis to saunter in and challenge him to a super secret laser gun duel a la Dr. Horrible.  Behind the counter is a very sweet older Asian gentleman who clearly takes pride in his sandwiches, sandwiches I’m told are known around the city as the best.  The tiny shop is full of people on their laptops, banging away at the keys, hammering out some novella they’ve had trapped in their heads for months, or simply finishing up the day’s work.  It’s a nice quiet atmosphere.  It’s the picture of San Francisco, and I love it.  I couldn’t be happier.

In the months leading up to my departure from Oklahoma, some suggested that my move to San Francisco was an ill conceived plan for me to run away from my problems. It was forecasted to end in disaster.  While I’ve only been here somewhere in the neighborhood of a month, I think I can safely say that it hasn’t ended in disaster, nor will it.  I’m learning my way around the city without a GPS, thankyouverymuch.  I’m astonished daily at the breathtaking beauty this city has to offer.  Around every corner is a sight to behold.  Granted sometimes the sight is someone taking a piss on the sidewalk, but it’s not all that often, and honestly, not really all that noticeable.  Of course, as with any adventure, it’s not always sunshine and rainbows.  There’s the occasional fog, and sometimes a jerk hits your car and doesn’t leave a note… but that’s a story for a different day! You came here to read the exciting adventures of an Oklahoma girl. 

My arrival here was met with little fanfare.  There was a quick hello on the street with my new roommate and then, my new life began.  It began rather quickly.  I unloaded my car and shortly came to the realization of just how much I had packed into my very tiny Volkswagen.  It seemed like so little when I was leaving behind a whole house full of stuff. I never thought about the magnitude of things I would be fitting into a single room, and I hadn’t even added furniture.  My roommate (whom I’ll tell you all about another time) ventured to IKEA with me straight away.  It was a bit of a trip for this Oklahoma girl.  It’s like Sweden and Wal-Mart had a love child, it’s fantastic, and it’s my new crack.  I furnished my entire bedroom for $800 INCLUDING the U-Haul I had to rent to get it all home.  The U-Haul was an experience in and of itself.  IKEA is located just over the Oakland Bay Bridge in a nice area adjacent to Oakland.   Yes, that Oakland.  The very same Oakland you hear about on television.  As it turns out, this place was not only IN Oakland, but in the heart of the worst possible part of Oakland.  So here we were, a Colorado hipster and his naïve Oklahoma transplant of a roommate, in the heart of the worst part of the whole of the San Francisco bay Area. 

We got off of the freeway and we were immediately deposited onto MacArthur Boulevard.  I kid you not when I say that everything on this street was covered in graffiti.  When I say graffiti, I don’t mean the works of art that you see in the Subways of New York, or the murals on the sides of buildings.  I’m talking about tags, some punk’s initials.  There were tags everywhere, and on everything.  For dramatic and/or hilarious effect, imagine a dog walking down the street with some punk’s initials spray painted on his side.  It was that bad.  As we ventured slowly down Mac Arthur, we came upon a scene straight out of COPS.  There were at least 6 police cars, and a dozen officers surrounding one dude on the sidewalk, with all their weapons drawn.  On one corner of the street stood a group of young, rather hard looking men wearing red, and a little further down the street was a group of young, rather hard looking men wearing blue.  This was no soccer match.  I picked up my U-Haul and jetted my way out of there as fast as I could.  It was such a huge difference from the area surrounding the IKEA just a mile or so away. It became very real that I wasn’t in Oklahoma anymore. 

The weeks subsequent my arrival were mostly filled with building a routine.  Truvy handles the routine thing well.  We start our day every morning at 5, okay 5:30, okay… 5:45.  We take a walk around the block and when we return, I feed her and then I start my flight of the bumblebee morning routine to get ready, as I’m usually late because my lazy ass stayed in bed too long.  I have to be at work at 7, so there’s very little traffic out at 6:45.  It only takes me 15 minutes to get to work.  It’s quite nice.  I started my new job just a few short days after I arrived.  I was immediately thrown into a new area of the construction industry I’ve never been a part of.  It was scary, it was fast, and it was overwhelming.  In the weeks since, I’ve found my sweet spot at the office.  I’ve settled into my job nicely and I’m getting to know everyone.  I’m still gazing out my office window for short intervals throughout the day, in awe of the fact that I am here.  I still feel like I’m on a long vacation most days.  All the guys at the office tell me to hang onto that.  I still can’t believe I’ve done this.  I’m so very proud of myself, and also very excited for what’s in store.  I know it will take me years to see all that this city has to offer, so I feel like a perpetual tourist. 

The hardest part, as with any move, is meeting people.  I have a wonderful friend in Marin, just north of the city, and I’ve met a couple of people from the local atheist group, but most days I’m at home with my roommate. I’m forcing myself to attend at least one meetup a week.  I’m hoping this will prove a good way to meet new people.  I’m not going to lie, it gets lonely.  If you know me at all, you know how much of a social butterfly I am.  It pains me to be stuck at home, and it pains me that I have no one to share $2.00 beer night with at the OSHA Thai on Union.  TWO DOLLAR BEER NIGHT.  Those are Oklahoma prices!  So I’m hoping I can make a friend to share a cold one with.  For now, I’ll drink to my friends back in Oklahoma whom I miss more and more everyday.  

The Irony of a Broken Dream

Welcome to my new blog! Welcome to SFOkie.com I'll be posting much more now that I'm beginning a new adventure. This is the easiest way for everyone back in Oklahoma to keep up with the sitcom that's about to become my life.

Its ironic that from the most heartbreaking moment of of my life, the beginning of something greater was born. It's crazy how things change. Six months ago I would have said I would be planning a late summer wedding. I would have said we would live in Oklahoma and grow old here with our brood of adopted offspring. I would have been very wrong, and very naive. It was only five months ago that he left (most days it feels like 5 years). Some would say I went off the deep end. I would say I simply opened the flood gates of all I was holding back in the name of love. I'm about to live my dream, a dream that would never have been possible if I were tied to the most cautious and unadventurous of men.


Originally, when I made the overwhelming decision to make this move, I had planned to have the house sold by mid April and whether or not I had a job I'd be leaving in early May. Things never work according to plan. The house isn't sold and I already have a job. I leave April 16, and I'm nowhere near ready. I've found a fantastic place to live in a great location in San Francisco, just a few blocks from the ocean and Golden Gate Park. More importantly, I've found a great job that I'm super excited to dive into. It's a new area of expertise for me, but it will utilize the entirety of my skill set. I can't wait to see what happens. I'm stupefied at how fast this is happening. In just seven days days I'll be heading West toward my life's dream. It hardly feels real.