Movie Review: Looking for Mr. Goodbar

Out of print since 1997 and never released on DVD, it seems curious as to why recent viewers have had to resort to grainy, aging VHS copies or pixilated bootleg streaming video feeds. In its day, Looking for Mr. Goodbar was a sensation, framed against the backdrop of the hedonistic late 70’s, disco, and permissive attitudes towards swinging and one-night-stands. It was controversial for many reasons, one being open-mouthed male on male kissing and another being a brief scene inside a gay bar. Without giving away spoilers, I’ll only say that the female lead engages regularly in sexual promiscuity, possibly to reject her strict Irish Catholic upbringing.

This may be Diane Keaton’s best role, showing her ample range an actress. Here she is no longer expected to play the comic foil to former boyfriend Woody Allen. Instead, her character holds down a respectable job teaching deaf children in the daytime, while trolling the singles bars at night. At first, her decision to play the field comes across as a personal dare, but with enough experience, Theresa Dunn finds she enjoys playing with fire. Indeed, her complacent, nonchalant attitude towards the unpredictability of this shadowy, smoky world that is her little secret eventually backfires spectacularly.

Looking for Mr. Goodbar was considered scandalous in its time, taken as a sobering warning that the sexually liberated Me Generation might contain an unforeseen element of terror. Since its release, some concerned parents have insisted their daughters watch the film as a means of deterrent. The main character, Theresa, resorts regularly to impulsive sexual behavior by actively courting a working class tough as a lover (a young Richard Gere) who is dangerous, rough, and a little nuts. That being said, the burden of ensuring physical safety and avoiding sexual assault should not be placed squarely upon the shoulders of Theresa or any woman. Men ought to bear the primary responsibility, but in situation after situation, they do not.

A relationship with a married college professor is her first experience with sex. Though at the outset she is somewhat timid, she enjoys the power of seduction and quickly develops a taste for it. Bettering her in impulsive behavior is her sister Katherine (Tuesday Weld). Katherine gets involved with a series of unhealthy men, gets two abortions, one of them without knowing for certain which man is the father, pursues whirlwind courtships and multiple marriages that always end badly, and routinely keeps sketchy company. She’s a one-woman drama storm, also in active rebellion against her doormat of a mother and a dictator of a father.

One might call Theresa somewhat naïve, and to an extent she is. But instead of being a purely gentle and benign soul, she has a stubborn and hard side, jaded and cynical. Diagnosed with polio in early childhood, the experience left more than a scar on her lower back. The memories clearly still haunt her, though they have managed to both leave her vulnerable and stiffen her spine. Her childhood leaves clues about her motivations that the film at times leaves up to its audience.

Her downfall will come in the form of a self-loathing rent boy. Though he has played the part of a gigolo with many gay men, he is virulently homophobic. The men with whom he has been involved or who make passes at him are victims of his bitter rage. He has a life elsewhere beyond the city, but for the moment he must rely upon a series of men who desire his sexual services.

Theresa is flinty and independent, but also insecure and self-doubting. Perhaps these contradictory feelings motivate her to take utterly random, mentally unstable men to bed on a regular basis, men many women would ignore or reject their advances. Before long she develops a no-nonsense exterior, which suits her well, but isn’t enough to keep her safe. Though she is presented with the consequences of her actions frequently, she is willing to tolerate abuse, believing the payout is higher than the potential repercussions.

In addition to the debauchery, she pursues a relationship with a do-gooder social worker who is a little too wholesome for her tastes. He endears himself to her parents, especially because he, too, is Catholic. Pleasing her parents and family is the very last thing Theresa wants. She continues to keep up risky relationships with riskier men. One of them will prove to be her undoing, but I did promise no spoilers. By the last twenty minutes of the film, Theresa has indulged herself in recreational drugs and is little more than a glorified sex worker.

The movie is based on a best-selling book written by Judith Rossner, which was itself based on a violent attack upon a New York City schoolteacher named Roseanne Quinn. Quinn, like Theresa Dunn, appears to have had a thing for rough trade. Theresa picks up men who are not her social equals, nor even her intellectual equals. Why she chooses such characters remains unknown. Returning to the rebellion argument, perhaps they are the very opposite of the men she has been raised to emulate.

In the meantime, she continues to develop a double life, saintly and chaste during the day, sleazy and reckless at night. Her behavior after hours while not at work becomes an addiction that she has no desire to reform. One evening she returns from a club to find that a regular lover has picked the lock to her apartment and is waiting for her inside. She strongly and vocally implores him numerous times to leave and he declines. Instead, he introduces her to cocaine and the two make love.

Looking for Mr. Goodbar is difficult to easily analyze. On one level, it comes across as a cautionary tale, a kind of real life true crime story warning women to be careful with whom they take to bed or take into their trust. On another, it’s the story of a talented, idealistic, but self-destructive woman with some sort of personality disorder. Men and women both have had the misfortune of finding erotic pleasure and satisfaction in the person of something or someone very unhealthy. In our still male-dominated world, women with this affliction usually find themselves in much greater threat of harm.

A Reminder

It was the best of times,
it was the worst of times,
it was the age of wisdom,
it was the age of foolishness,
it was the epoch of belief,
it was the epoch of incredulity,
it was the season of Light,
it was the season of Darkness,
it was the spring of hope,
it was the winter of despair,

we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way— in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.- Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

Living with Bipolar Disorder, Medication Withdrawal Edition

As anticipated, antidepressant washout and discontinuation commenced over the weekend. I will continue to write what I can until this regrettable, but necessary process concludes, though it may take a month from start to finish. The pain and discomfort is intense enough to keep me from doing my usual good job with opinion pieces and op/ed posts, but I can at least describe my immediate state. I may even be able to educate a few people here and there about the particulars of bipolar disorder.

Periodically I peer out of the living room window not far from my computer desk. The snow is still coming down heavily, much as has been the case for the past several hours. The entire city is more or less shut down for today. I find the effect calming and beautiful. I never grew up in an area of the country where snowfall was plentiful, and although a native of the Midwest or New England might scoff, this has been an unusually snowy and frigid winter for us.

Washout involves tapering off of medication. In this case, an antidepressant is no longer working. Specifically, I've been taking Zoloft for the last two years. Unfortunately, as is often the case with the drug, the effectiveness that psychiatrists call efficacy is simply not present any longer. Even dramatic increases up to the maximum dose, 200 mg per day, have not helped. I began at 50 mg, a relatively modest dose, which was effective for several months, but then required steady increases in dosage to receive the same benefit. Now it barely works at all.

This is a new experience for me. I've certainly changed medication before, multiple times, but I've never had an antidepressant poop out on me. Zoloft is one of the oldest drugs on the market that is still regularly prescribed, receiving FDA approval for depression and generalized anxiety disorder in 1991. In its day, it was a great advance to what had come before it. It's one of the founding member of the SSRI class of antidepressants, which stands for Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor. This class of drug revolutionized treatment for depression and other co-morbid disorders, co-morbid meaning those disorders that happen alongside and simultaneously with depressive diagnoses.  

In the 1960's and 1970's, there were relatively few medications that specifically treated depression. They were either tricyclics, with significant side effects, or monoamine oxidase inhibitors (MAOIs), with even more side effects. The cult British folk singer Nick Drake died in 1974 from an overdose of a tricyclic antidepressant known most commonly in the United States as Elavil. Elavil was approved for use in 1961. Drake was prescribed a medication that was nearly fifteen years old, which shows how confounding it was at the time to find new medications and treatments for depression.

I was on an MAOI for four years and had to watch my diet with extreme caution. A hypertensive crisis results from consuming the wrong foods, in this case, an amino acid called Tyramine. It's usually found in fermented or aged foods like cheese, yogurt, and sausage. Sometimes very problematic ingredients are concealed and unlisted within foods. This can cause a strong, scary reaction I never wish to repeat.

I had four terrifying Emergency Room visits, after which I made an informed decision to come off of MAOIs. In the back of the ambulance, my blood pressure and pulse rate reached dangerous levels. The effects came in waves. My pulse would go through the roof, then level off, then resume its upward climb. The incessant back and forth had me feeling panicky and afraid. Within a couple hours, now in a hospital bed, my condition stabilized and I was soon discharged and able to go home.  

Before then, I'd taken an MAOI without a mood stabilizer, Lithium, which for me has been an excellent anti-manic. Some months earlier, without Lithium, a MAOI threw me into a manic episode intense enough that I had to spend nearly four weeks in the hospital regaining my sanity. That is nothing I ever want to repeat, and fortunately that period is six years in the past. I have, blessedly, managed to avoid hospitalization since then. I do not anticipate the same happening to me now, but I do know that I'll feel fairly miserable for a while.

Since then, many other medication have been developed, and it may do me good to be placed on a medication that has only recently been introduced. Past antidepressants I've taken like Effexor and Cymbalta have greater lasting power, but they both have absolutely hellacious withdrawal symptoms. Psychiatrists were slow to recognize the problem, meaning lots of people suffered unnecessarily. My treatment options now include drugs I have never taken before because they have only recently been released. I have only one more day before I meet with my psychiatrist to consider new options.

Coming off of Zoloft depends on whether I can tolerate it a swift taper, or a more prolonged one. The rule of thumb is usually to half the existing dosage for a week, then reduce it by half once more. In my case, I'll be on 100 mg for a week, 50 mg for a week, 25 mg for a week, a week of nothing, then the introduction of the new medication or medications will proceed. Even cautious tapering doesn't prevent major side effects, but this process might be abbreviated somewhat because Zoloft isn't working, regardless of the prescribed strength.

I scarcely remember a time where I wasn't on some medication or another. I began taking antidepressants when I was 15 and was formally diagnosed with manic depression at 21. For many years, I defined myself closely with my illnesses, but that was because they were too fresh and too present. I never wanted to be considered eccentric, or worse yet, mentally ill.

For the duration, bipolar means taking my medications, regulating my condition, conveying my symptoms to the psychiatrist, and finding a way to live in spite of it. At times, I can almost forget that I'm disabled, until I look over at my bedside table and find nine specific medications to be taken periodically throughout the day. It's a lot of work and I find I have to make time in my day for self-care. I have to follow multiple steps in sequence when I wake up in the morning and before I go to bed at night.

In writing this, I've experienced several severe short-lived, but unpleasant mood swings, which is common for antidepressant withdrawal. What I don't know is how debilitating this process will be. If it is no worse than it is now, then I'll consider myself fortunate. But there is always the possibility of needing to occupy the bed or the living room couch. I'll cross that bridge when I get there. In my head, I hear the voice of my mother telling me not to borrow trouble from tomorrow, which is sage advice. I'll deal with today for now.

Quote of the Week

"People who are having a love-sex relationship are continuously lying to each other because the very nature of the relationship demands that they do, because you have to make a love object of this person, which means that you editorialize about them.

You cut out what you don't want to see, you add this if it isn't there. And so therefore you're building a lie. But in a friendship you don't do that. You do exactly the reverse. You try more and more to be as completely pure and straight as you can be."-Truman Capote

Saturday Video

I'm from the other side of town, out of bounds
To anybody who don't live around
I never learned to share, or how to care
I never had no teachings about being fair

Depression is part of my mind
The sun never shines
On the other side of town
The need here is always for more
There's nothing good in store
On the other side of town

It's hard to do right in this filthy night
Just plain simple comfort
is completely out of sight

My little sister,
she hungry for bread to eat
My brother's hand me down shoes
are now showing his feet

Ghetto blues showed on the news, all is aware
But what the hell do they care?
You across the track, completely relaxed
You take a warning fact,
don't you never come back

I'm from the other side of town, out of bounds
To anybody who don't live around
I never learned to share, or how to care
I never had no teachings about being fair

Depression is part of my mind
The sun never shines
On the other side of town

The need here is always for more
There's nothing good in store
On the other side of town

50 Ways to Leave Your Lover

The problem is all inside your head she said to me
The answer is easy if you take it logically
I'd like to help you in your struggle to be free
There must be fifty ways to leave your lover

She said it's really not my habit to intrude
I hope my meaning won't be lost or misconstrued
But I'll repeat myself at the risk of being crude
There must be fifty ways to leave your lover
Fifty ways to leave your lover

You just slip out the back, Jack
Make a new plan, Stan
You don't need to be coy, Roy
Just get yourself free
Hop on the bus, Gus
You don't need to discuss much
Just drop off the key, Lee
And get yourself free

She said it grieves me so
to see you in such pain
I wish there was something
I could do to make you smile again

I said I appreciate that and would you please explain
About the fifty ways

She said why don't we both
just sleep on it tonight
And I believe in the morning
you'll begin to see the light
And then she kissed me
and I realized she probably was right

There must be fifty ways to leave your lover
Fifty ways to leave your lover

You just slip out the back, Jack
Make a new plan, Stan
You don't need to be coy, Roy
Just get yourself free
Hop on the bus, Gus
You don't need to discuss much
Just drop off the key, Lee
And get yourself free

There Are Many Parts, But Only One Body

When I write about being Quaker, I frequently receive some version of the same response. A recent commentator remarked that the Religious Society of Friends is, in his words, the only faith who gets it right. Catholics have their well-documented problems and fundamentalist Protestants their own, but to some, we occupy rarefied air. Those raised in either tradition are usually the first to compliment my own. While my first response is to be proud to be held in such high esteem, upon further reflection, I wonder if it is fair for us to be the sole occupants of this adulation.

Centuries ago, Jesus continued onward with his ministry on Earth, making frequent stops along the way. He’d been performing a series of astonishing miracles, healing the sick and even raising the dead. His disciples were granted a degree of proficiency in this same task. The effect must have been thrilling to them, as nearly all of them had come from humble beginnings. But when they got wind that someone else was having similar success, they felt threatened.

John said to Jesus, "Master, we saw someone using your name to cast out demons, but we told him to stop because he isn't in our group." But Jesus said, "Don't stop him! Anyone who is not against you is for you."

It bothers me when people rank faiths, ascribing some to have great value and others to have none whatsoever. It shows how embittered and critical some are towards organized religion. It benefits my own work to see religion grow, not shrink, as has been the case the past several decades. That a person would feel that every other religion was worthless, in his or her eyes, does not sit well with me.

That kind of criticism could turn on my own faith. I’ve always used the story of Jesus as a graphic representation that the crowds singing your praises on Sunday might well choose a different tune by Friday. As is true with every house of worship, one finds problems everywhere, regardless of where you go. One might be insulated somewhat from imperfection at first, but taking leadership roles removes the scales from the eyes. As the saying goes, law and sausage are two things you do not want to see being made.

Legitimate criticism exists, of course, most notably with the Roman Catholic Church. A phrase once in frequent usage was “Go to the church of your choice.” We still have that decision open to us, if we derive comfort from it. While I strongly disagree with right-wing Christianity, I recognize that many people crave the certitude of absolute rules and laws. The litany and liturgy present have a soothing familiarity with many. My primary concern is attracting young adults to Worship. This problem exists nearly everywhere, but especially so with liberal faiths.

In more progressive houses of worship, a strong emphasis is frequently placed upon ecumenicism and interfaith efforts. It is an excellent opening to educate others about the particulars of one’s religious beliefs, but some are so cautious not to offend that the opportunity is lost. Liberals, religious or otherwise, bend over backwards to grant everyone a seat at the table, which is acceptable, but can be insufficient.

Sometimes, a desire to not silence anyone’s voice means that we are less than forthcoming in anything but surface niceties. Real conversation is what we need, even when it is intense and uncomfortable. One of the fallacies of liberal thought is to acknowledge every minority group that clamors for acceptance, but to not always actively incorporate the diversity. For some, diversity is a coalition affair, but not complete integration.

Yes, the body has many different parts, not just one part. If the foot says, "I am not a part of the body because I am not a hand," that does not make it any less a part of the body. And if the ear says, "I am not part of the body because I am not an eye," would that make it any less a part of the body?

As it is, there are many parts, but one body.

I can find little fault with the Methodism of my boyhood. The service on Sunday with its rituals was satisfying to me, not burdensome. My only two criticisms were these. Firstly, I regarded the sermons I heard as usually boring. Secondly, I was provided a simplified understanding of Jesus and the Bible. Overtly controversial passages were never brought up. It wasn’t until I became an adult that I realized I’d been cheated. It wasn’t until I reached adulthood that I read the Scriptures with fresh eyes. Christ came to teach me himself, not through any intermediary.

Jesus himself can teach us in ways a priest, minister, vicar, or rector (to name but a few) cannot. Self-study is crucial to understanding. George Fox, the founder of our faith, memorized the entire Bible. By the standards of the day, he was uneducated, but his command of Scripture was vastly superior to those who had attended seminary. This was partially what saw him arrested and tossed into jail with frequency. In keeping with the practice of their leader, the Early Friends did not bring Bibles to Meeting for Worship. The implication was that each person had long since memorized it and had no need for the written text.

The reasons why people turn away from religion are multifarious. I don’t begin to understand them, though I comprehend a few things here and there. For some, the weariness of the same rituals and the sterility of worship is to blame. Those who came from blame and shame Evangelical churches never had the right to form their own spiritual interpretation beyond the hard line drawn for everyone. My father left the Southern Baptist church of his boyhood because of its attitudes towards sin and punishment. He was taught that a person could only sin a certain number of times before he or she was condemned to hell forever.

Having noted a few of the deterrents, let me propose a new strategy. Let’s not view most religions as inherently noxious. In addition, let’s not place a few others upon on pedestals. That approach is not fair to any group of imperfect seekers. I certainly would not mind if people tried out a Quaker Meeting to determine whether it was for them, before granting us high praise. There are only around 150,000 of us in North America and we are understandably worried about the future of our Religious Society. We do things very differently, and that difference might be an attractive quality for many.

Every Night

Every night I just wanna go out,
get out of my head
Every day I don't want to get up,
get out of my bed

Every night I want to play out
And every night I want to
do oo oo  oo  oo
But tonight I just want to stay in
and be with you

And be with you

Oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo
Oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo

Every day I lean on a lamp post,
I'm wasting my time
Every night I lay on a pillow,
I'm resting my mind

Every morning brings a new day
Every night that day is through oo oo oo oo

But tonight I just want stay in and be with you
And be with you

Oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo
Oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oo

The Sound of Silence

This past weekend, I spent time in Alexandria, Virginia, just over the Potomac River from the District of Columbia. While there, I visited a historic Anglican church that was home to both George Washington and Robert E. Lee. Though I was struck by the beauty of the sanctuary, its design was curious.

Each pew was walled off from those adjacent to it. They looked like monastic cells. To me, the effect was isolating. I’ve grown accustomed to sitting nearby others on the same wooden bench. Church attenders rented their pews. Those with more money contributed a large amount, those with less paid what they could. The money collected was used to feed the needy, specifically widows and orphaned children. It was what passed for public assistance in those days.

Our approach is vastly different, not just towards caring for our own, but in how we conduct ourselves. Quakers worship in silence, or should I say, the branch of Quaker I belong to does. This is a radical departure from most other forms of worship. In our American culture, we are often told that there is no value whatsoever in staying quiet for any reason.  I spend most of my day actively and energetically communicating with others. As a people, we aren’t always sure what to make of the total absence of verbosity. We tend to assign it to nothingness, but my religious expression shows that silence can be very meaningful.

Visitors to Quaker Meeting often view unprogramed worship as a kind of meditation. This is true to an extent, but I’ve always seen meditation as an exercise, not a spiritual practice. Put this way, the practice sounds New Agey, which it is not. Its roots go far deeper than that. I’ll admit that at first I did find it challenging to center into silence and remain that way for several minutes at a time. Newcomers often expect something to happen before their very eyes, be it a minister leading the congregation in a responsive reading or in standing to sing a hymn. Instead, the silence is spontaneously and somewhat abruptly broken by a voice providing vocal ministry, which could be located a bench behind us, or even at the very back of the room.

As a kind of discipline, I’ve tried to incorporate silence into my life beyond once-a-week worship. When I owned a car, I would sometimes drive to wherever I was going with the radio off and only my own thoughts as a companion. Long trips became avenues for greater enlightenment. Many people might grow bored or restless without noise as a distraction. I’ve known many people who keep their television on all the time as background white noise, because nothing makes them more uneasy than complete silence.

City dwellers become accustomed to the sounds of the streets and thoroughfares close by their residence. We are adaptable beings. There’s an old joke about living in New York City. The punch line is that you last heard complete silence in 1972 and when you did, it scared you to death. Nowadays, our lives are full of constant communication, constant noise. Even if we aren’t speaking over a phone or speaking face to face to someone else, we’re still communicating with text messages, e-mail, or on websites.

Silence is not a placeholder. With enough practice and introspection, it can become as meaningful as any spoken word. It was at odds with the prevailing culture 350 years ago, and it is even more at odds today. In poetry and in art, silence has been equated with alienation and loneliness. The Italian film director Michelangelo Antonioni used ominous silence, with minimal dialogue, to sinister, foreboding effect. Horror films use the same tactic to frighten its audience.

Those who were told to stay quiet and deprived of the agency to speak their mind may think of silence in a very different way. In this context, I’m speaking specifically about a very active way to block out extraneous sound. Staying silent for oneself is what I mean. Doing so requires defying current trends and summoning an immense amount of inner strength. Swimming with the current is a temptation to which many succumb.

It grows more and more difficult to find silence. City dwellers retreat to mountains and rural areas to provide a respite to their noise-saturated daily lives. The Quaker Meeting I attend was built on a plot of land, away from a busy roadway, that provided a quieter setting. That was in 1931. Now, over eighty years later, the area surrounding it has been built up considerable. Noises from outside intrude routinely upon the silence. These include fire trucks, car stereos, and ambulances. I’d be willing to wager that noise pollution will continue to grow and swell with time, but we will grin and bear it.

Silence means different things to different people. Silence provides different things to different people. Starting out, I found nothing remotely interesting or inspiring in staying quiet. With years of practice, I’ve begun to respect it, even though I am always grateful when a voice breaks the silence. Ideally, a balance between spoken words and silence is what is desired. Without a called minister to provide a lengthy sermon, there is no way to control what might by said and how many might say it.

Many of us believe that nothing good in life comes without hard work. Embracing silence can be difficult, because we don’t usually view it as work. Introverts like me often gravitate to Quakerism because we are introspective by nature. Any ideas I communicate, including the words I’ve written here, start deep within me. Silence gives way to speaking, but speaking also gives way to silence. We might well be happier if we sought a balance between the two.

Quote of the Week

Saturday Video

Uptown got its hustlers
The bowery got its bums
42nd Street got big Jim Walker
He's a pool-shootin' son of a gun

Yeah, he big and dumb as a man can come
But he's stronger than a country hoss
And when the bad folks all get together at night
You know they all call Big Jim "boss", just because

And they say

You don't tug on Superman's cape
You don't spit into the wind
You don't pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger
And you don't mess around with Jim

Well outta south Alabama came a country boy
He say I'm lookin' for a man named Jim
I am a pool-shootin' boy
My name Willie McCoy
But down home they call me Slim

Yeah I'm lookin' for the king of 42nd Street
He drivin' a drop top Cadillac
Last week he took all my money
And it may sound funny
But I come to get my money back

And everybody say jack
don't you know

You don't tug on Superman's cape
You don't spit into the wind
You don't pull the mask off the old lone ranger
And you don't mess around with Jim

Well a hush fell over the pool room
Jimmy come boppin' in off the street
And when the cuttin' was done
The only part that wasn't bloody
Was the soles of the big man's feet

Yeah he was cut in in about a hundred places
And he was shot in a couple more
And you better believe
They sung a different kind of story
When Big Jim hit the floor

now they say

You don't tug on Superman's cape
You don't spit into the wind
You don't pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger
And you don't mess around with Slim

Yeah, Big Jim got his hat
Find out where it's at
And it's not hustlin' people strange to you
Even if you do got a two-piece custom-made pool cue

Yeah you don't tug on Superman's cape
You don't spit into the wind
You don't pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger
And you don't mess around with Slim

Washout Introspection

Regular readers may have noticed that I've been writing more frequently and posting fewer YouTube music videos. The reason for this is because I'm about to change antidepressants. The one I've been taking for around two years was once very effective, but its efficacy has decreased substantially over time. It's not uncommon for psychiatric medications to take this course, but it is no less frustrating when it does.

In a couple of weeks, I'll need to go through a period of what is known as wash out. By this I mean that I'll slowly taper down off of my current medication until there is none of it left in my system. One cannot have two antidepressants in the bloodstream at the same time, as that would produce what is known as serotonin syndrome, which can be dangerous. I've been through this process multiple times. The first couple of weeks are only mildly uncomfortable, deceptively so, but the final stages are very painful.

Wash out usually limits my productivity. I'm stuck in bed or on the couch for a couple weeks during the worst stage of the process. Cognizant of what is to follow, posting may be scarce for a little while. If I'm able to put together something passable, I will. If I can't, I won't. In the meantime, I'll try to compensate for what might be an extended absence.

Once my current antidepressant is entirely out of my system, then it will be time to introduce a new one. The drug I'm on, Zoloft, is one of the older selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors out there. Fortunately, there have been new medications in the same class developed in the past five or six years I have yet to try. It is in many ways unfortunate that the brain is as complicated and poorly understood as it is. To put it a different way, current medical understanding of the brain is like a map of the New World drawn up in the 1600's, full of inaccuracies, guesses, and uncharted regions.

When we say mental illness, what we really mean is a disease of the brain. It's more medically accurate to label manic depression as a disorder, but doing so makes it less understandable for the average person. I have a brain disease that is chronic, meaning it will never go away. I will need to take medication for the rest of my life. I may even have to go through wash out again, even multiple times. At last count, I've been through this five times before.

Some medications I take, like Lithium, will stay static, a part of my treatment forever. Antidepressants and augmenting agents are a different story. As research and development of new psych drugs progress, I may periodically need to come completely off of an older, less effective medication, and on to a newer one. In any case, none of this can be avoided. Though I do not expect it in my lifetime, I pray daily for a cure.  

I go into detail here, as I always do, to remove the secrecy and shame of chronic illness. Maybe a reader struggling with his or her own psychiatric problems will read this and seek treatment himself or herself. At times, I can almost forget how regimented my life is around the taking of pills, modification of my diet, all the while always scrutinizing myself for any evidence of imbalance or abnormality. It's work being disabled, but I've been at it this long and rarely feel the need to lick my wounds.

I've had medical problems since childhood, so I have no recollection of a time where they did not exist. That helps somewhat. In some ways, my current state is similar to people who are much older than myself, only now experiencing the onset of problems that are a result of the collective wear and tear of the aging process. We are biological machines that wear out eventually. One lifetime is all we receive. My body is wearing out much sooner. It does make me introspective, to wonder why we're completely wrapped up in a life that will conclude in the blink of an eye.  

Religious Expression and House of Cards

The second season of the acclaimed television drama House of Cards was finally released at the end of last week. For those of you who have not seen it, I highly recommend the series. The entire season, all thirteen episodes, was available to view at one time. Like many, I binge watched over the weekend, though I’ve slowly been savoring each episode again with a second viewing. The series has many parallel story lines and interlocking characters. It’s easy to get confused.

I want to focus specifically on two minor characters. One of them is a former call girl who, under duress, was forced to leave the profession. She provided sexual services for an alcoholic and self-destructive congressman who was later tapped to run for governor of Pennsylvania. Because she knew too much, she found her movements constantly shadowed by the loyal henchman of a power-hungry politician. Her life was no longer her own. With time, as we all would in repressive circumstances like these, she began to resist her confinement.

The second character, also a young woman of about the same age, is a self-professed former heroin addict. As part of her recovery, she joined a small Christian church. The main draw is a self-consciously hip contemporary worship. She finds religion essential to her sanity and it gives her an opportunity to give back to the community. By chance, the two meet on a bus and strike up a fast friendship. The former addict asks the former sex worker if she would be willing to attend, placing literature into her hand. At first, the escort girl is skeptical but is reassured by the addict that she herself, at first, blanched at the very thought of attending church.

Despite her reservations, the former prostitute attends. She enjoys the beautiful music during the service and enjoys taking care of the children while their parents are in worship. The job gives her a kind of stability and grounding she has lacked her whole life. This interlude is by no means glowingly complementary of organized religion, but neither does it see a need to lampoon it. Its portrayal is decidedly neutral. For that, I am thankful.

What we don’t see are tearful confessions, or outright displays of religiosity. There are no scenes of altar calls, communion wafers, or earnest prayers. Scripture is quoted only on one or two occasions, and never for very long. One gets a feeling that this experience, for the two of them, might be somewhat superficial, or meant to fill an immediate need.

In my own life, I’ve observed a man about my own age who briefly attended the young adult group of which I am a member. In the middle of Worship Sharing, he confessed to being an alcoholic in recovery. He was certainly welcome to attend again as often as he liked, but he felt far too internally conflicted to feel a part of any group. He hated himself for his past transgressions, even though we did not judge him for them. Shame is what led him away from religion.

Jesus got a lot of criticism from the so-called keepers of the law based on the company he kept.

While Jesus was having dinner at Matthew's house, many tax collectors and sinners came and ate with him and his disciples. But when the Pharisees saw this, they asked his disciples, "Why does your teacher eat with such scum?" When Jesus heard this, he said, "Healthy people don't need a doctor--sick people do."Then he added, "Now go and learn the meaning of this Scripture: 'I want you to show mercy, not offer sacrifices.' For I have come to call not those who think they are righteous, but those who know they are sinners."

I return to the lives of two such sinners. In a series of rapidly building scenes, the lesbian subtext grows ever more potent. The two becomes lovers. And yet, much remains unseen and unexplained. How did others in the church respond to them? They must have been entrusted with great responsibility to take care of the kids. This is especially true nowadays with the possibility of an incident happening and the equal risk of potential legal repercussions to follow.

In my Meeting, those who have any contact at all with children must undergo a background check and have others vouch for their character. Everyone’s paranoid now about sex offenders and no one wants to take any chances. Both of these characters have skeletons in their closet and I find it likely that they also have criminal records.

This is what really struck me. My judgmental side believes that everyone ought to take their responsibilities seriously, and adopt a more substantial role within a house of worship. By that exacting standard, these two women do not fit the profile, even assisting with childcare and in regularly attending worship. A brief scene shows one of them reading the Bible aloud to the other, but their conduct is mostly unchanged. The language they use is of their past, and I see no application of moral lessons in months of attending church.

Before I come down too harshly, I must also admit that their loneliness and need for stable social interaction has been enough for many to embrace religion. Any twelve-step program emphasizes a belief in a higher power. For those who have struggled and fought to stay clean, religion can be a soothing salve to heal cuts to the psyche. Many formerly successful musicians and those in the public eye have become Christians when their popularity waned and the money for drugs ran out.

Yet once again we ask for answers and receive few of them. How would the members of the church or the minister think about this same-sex relationship? We hear their praise songs, tastefully underscored by softly lilting guitars and a group sing-along. We see the cross hanging on the wall, in a brief pan that takes in the Butler Building that houses the small sanctuary. Theology is never expressed and the other worshipers are static figures. We never see their faces in profile, only from behind. The director wants the focus to be on two fallen women with substantial baggage.

There is a passage in the Gospel of John I return to frequently. It regards an encounter between Jesus and a Samaritan woman. Jews and Samaritans did not associate with each other. Jews saw Samaritans as bastard half-breeds and Samaritans saw Jews as cold-hearted elitists.

So Jesus came to a town in Samaria called Sychar, near the plot of ground Jacob had given to his son Joseph. Jacob's well was there; and Jesus, tired from the long walk, sat wearily beside the well about noontime. When a Samaritan woman came to draw water, Jesus said to her, "Will you give me a drink?"

The woman was surprised, for Jews refuse to have anything to do with Samaritans. She said to Jesus, "You are a Jew, and I am a Samaritan woman. Why are you asking me for a drink?"

"Go and get your husband," Jesus told her. "I have no husband," she replied. Jesus said to her, "You are right when you say you have no husband. The fact is, you have had five husbands, and the man you now have is not your husband. What you have just said is quite true." "Sir," the woman said, "I can see that you are a prophet.

But the time is coming--indeed it's here now--when true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and in truth. The Father is looking for those who will worship him that way. For God is Spirit, so those who worship him must worship in spirit and in truth."

Though I would have preferred more detail, I am satisfied with what I’ve observed. If it had been my screenplay to write, I would have seen skepticism of religion fall away. I would have shown a great comfort in belief. And I would have seen a wedding between two women ordained by God and all who were present. That being said, I recognize that this doesn’t fit the tone of a very dark, malevolent series where favorable outcomes are few, and short-lived if they exist at all.

I’m happy that Christianity was treated with dignity, because I honestly believe in its redemptive power for each of us, regardless of our past conduct. Few faiths give us the ability to be forgiven and make a fresh start. And by forgiveness, I mean an internal sort of exercise for our own benefit, not someone else’s. The inner work comes first. Exteriors are the reasons why many of us find ourselves being unduly scrutinized, but real redemption starts the moment we listen to the truth.

Venus

A goddess on the mountain top
Was burning like a silver flame
The summit of beauty and love
And Venus was her name

She's got it
Yeah, baby, she's got it
I'm your Venus, I'm your fire
At your desire

Well, I'm your Venus, I'm your fire
At your desire

Her weapons were her crystal eyes
Making every man a man
Black as the dark night she was
Got what no-one else had
Wa!

She's got it
Yeah, baby, she's got it
I'm your Venus, I'm your fire
At your desire

Well, I'm your Venus, I'm your fire
At your desire
A goddess on the mountain top
Was burning like a silver flame

The summit of beauty and love
And Venus was her name
She's got it

Yeah, baby, she's got it
I'm your Venus, I'm your fire
At your desire

Well, I'm your Venus, I'm your fire
At your desire

The Unseen Complexities of Class Identity

When I was still living in the Deep South, I attended a small church. By small, I mean that by megachurch standards it was tiny. Within easy driving distance of my childhood home, one could find several such institutions. I used to dismissively call them “Six Flags over Jesus.” Speaking for myself, I’m more comfortable in relatively small religious settings. The Methodist church where I attended with my family until shortly before high school fit that profile, which is why I suppose I’ve always felt like one of many zeros elsewhere.  

I church shopped for a while, but eventually landed somewhere reasonably soft and comfortable. It was a Unitarian Universalist church full of non-natives who congregated together because they didn’t necessarily fit seamlessly into the prevailing culture. But there were many Southerners like myself who appreciated the company of those who were liberal and unapologetic. The church had attracted a large cross-section of the creative class of the city, the artists, musicians, and dancers. This was their blue oasis and for a while, I appreciated the dramatic change in scenery.

A regular attender brought a very different perspective. His strong southern accent was undeniable. By contrast, I tried to lose my own and mainly succeeded. He sold, among other things, fully automatic coffee makers to be used in industrial settings. They were the sort usually installed in break rooms so that workers could enjoy a cup of coffee while not on the clock. For free, the man provided and installed himself one of these contraptions in the church kitchen. It made quick work of what could be a trying task. Preparing coffee for close to a hundred people was no small feat.

I began to drift away from the philosophy of the church and become openly critical of the entire faith itself. Because I’d been an active member, people periodically asked me why I’d had this sudden change of heart. One of them was the man I’ve introduced. My criticisms stung and he felt that I was somehow rejecting him in the process.

“I enjoy where I go to church,” he said. “At work, I’m always among bubbas. I just don’t have much in common with them.”

I related to his plight. My father worked in similarly blue collar settings, but those never seemed to bother him much. He knew where he came from and never once denied his identity. Dad leased trucks to companies and corporations who needed to ship products across the country. When I was very young, he competed for the account of a company that was fast expanding beyond its home base in Arkansas. It was called Wal-Mart. Had he landed it, he would have become a millionaire overnight. It was the big fish that got away, but he never lost sleep over it.

Since I’ve become an adult, I’ve noticed that my father’s choice in friends and acquaintances reflected who he was and how he saw himself. They were usually highly educated, middle class men made good. They almost always worked in the same industry as he did, but somehow he was magnanimous enough never see them as competitors. Each of these businessmen had learned to work within the dichotomy of class identity, keeping a foot firmly planted in both camps. They knew they would need to code switch and modify their choice of words depending on their audience.

My father grew up dirt poor. Through hard work and luck he became middle class, but he has always retained a kind of class guilt. I’ve always ascribed it to something like survivor’s guilt. He got out of East Alabama, but many of his classmates at school and teammates on the baseball diamond never have. Dad was a home run hitter in his day, the batter no pitcher wanted to face. Those days are long gone. Unemployment in the rural county where he grew up has remained fixed at 15% ever since the textile mills shuttered and headed elsewhere. It's the same effect as the Rust Belt of the Midwest and Northeast.

My mother’s story is similar, but very different. Her family owned its own small business, a well drilling company. In more remote areas of the region, where city water wasn’t an option, water wells were the only source of potable water. It was a filthy, laborious profession, but it gave my mother’s family a sense of autonomy that my father’s family never did. The lowest of the low were worker bees with little control over their own finances. Having experienced significant poverty earlier, my mother's folks made sure to prevent it from ever happening again.

Mom only needed to climb one rung to reach respectable middle class status. Her mother and father always had an inferiority complex for never having attended college. They’d looked forward to the societal advancement and the opportunity to learn, but the Great Depression wiped out the money that had been saved for tuition. It was expected in her family that one ought to make good and that high achievement was not optional. They acted the part and hoped in time the role would be given to them.   

In my father’s family, the expectation was that one would learn a trade after high school. His mother and father had, at most, an eighth grade education between them. They never once considered college or any other vocation beyond what they saw, without much reservation, as their lot in life. For them, this was just what one did. My father had to scale two massive class constructs, which is why his feelings towards his roots have always been conflicted. My mother’s path to respectability was much easier.

Class is an important topic within the Religious Society of Friends. While we seek common purpose with others and delight in the similarities of our life story, we at times overlook other perspectives. Don’t get me wrong. Few faith groups like ours have ever succeeded in attracting members and attenders from a social strata below our own. Some of this is our responsibility, but to simplify this issue and place the burden upon only one party isn’t realistic.

The same is true when it comes to appealing to African-Americans and those of other racial minorities. I’m not arguing that it’s all a simple matter of greater inclusiveness, because that leaves out personal choice. We may not be for everyone, but nonetheless we are for someone. Class is complicated and multi-layered. It cannot be easily unraveled and explained. What I do know is that every one of us has a story to tell. That may be the only way we can really communicate effectively, beyond the limitations of process and the sterility of terminology. Let’s dare to see everyone as a child of God.      

Leaving Room for Levity in Activism

As a person often frustrated with the pacing and progress of reform, I have to say that the increased tolerance towards LGBTs exceeds my expectations. I never felt entirely alone, but I always believed myself to be a member of a hopeless, forever excluded minority. Fifteen years ago, I never doubted that most people of my generation were solidly in my corner. But as is often the case, I felt that those older than myself, raised in very different times, would not be receptive. I am pleased to be proven wrong on more than one occasion. They've been the ones to shape the legislation and seize the initiative, because those my own age are only now beginning to gain in influence.

The last remaining hurdle to jump is that of transgender equality. Marriage equality between two men or two women is now comprehensible to the average American. The next step is to increase visibility for everyone who falls under the transgender umbrella. Correcting years of misinformation and an inaccurate understanding of transsexuals is the next step. It may come sooner than expected, or it may not.

And though the work so nobly advanced has made a great difference, we must also get our own house in order. To some, even partial ignorance of the terminology and narrative of trans issues automatically must be destructive. The focus shifts from an altruistic desire to aid and assist to a desire to be right at all cost. Some people think that one interaction and exchange of ideas with a transgender person speaks for everyone. We become focused on being a perfect ally, however we define it individually. We ourselves have flaws and shortcomings in more areas than one. The only fair move is to grant others the right to the same imperfection. The unwritten rules of orthodoxy hold us back the same way certain religious groups have to some.

I’m not speaking about the transphobic and deliberately hurtful voices, the Fred Phelps and Westboro Baptist Church hatemongers. These are extreme examples, but sometimes anything that smells even faintly like this sort of intolerance is treated as though no distinction exists. These reactionary voices must be refuted, even though I wonder at times whether their vituperative banter is meant more to produce a reaction than to win anyone's support. They may have been the original trolls, well before the internet. And if they were, what does that say about the kind of anger and venom now thrown about casually in the comment section of multiple websites?

Say something transphobic in a feminist or gender studies forum and the response can be swift and cutting. There’s something more than a little self-righteous about this attitude, as though a few are the keepers of ultimate reality and the one true reform. I would take a step back, if I were they. I've known Atheists who have been rejected from Christian faiths and have called some of them my friend. They sometimes structure their new identity and organization in ways that are as restrictive, exclusionary, and even similar from where they started out.

I’m a person of faith, which is why I often use Scriptural passages to underscore my argument. Here I am referencing the Pharisees, the priestly, elite class of Jews whose hypocrisy and hubris made them a frequent target of Jesus.

They tie up heavy, cumbersome loads and put them on other people's shoulders, but they themselves are not willing to lift a finger to move them.

For the whole of my life, I have known that I wasn’t entirely male. Outside of small groups of sympathetic people, I usually don’t talk about such things. Here's why. Among some, gender identity is rigid and unchanging. To them, my views are automatically invalid and suspect. Among others, I am simply playing with labels in an irresponsible fashion. In reality, my gender identity has changed over time, partially through introspection on my part and also in hearing the distinct stories of others who feel the way I do. Who I am at this moment may well change to my dying day, as I change and as my insights change. Our knowledge and understanding is always in a state of flux.

A year ago, I attended an LGBT conference. Even years after I’ve come out as bisexual and genderqueer, the thought of being around that much commonality is enough to throw me into a fit of anxiety. It was the best of times and the worst of times. I bunked with a man who I presumed was some flavor of queer, though I had no need, nor any desire to ask. We chatted pleasantly because he reminded me of my long-dead Grandparents. But when the talk turned heavy, he noted that he’d never really been able to understand how he ought to identify or how he turned out the way that he was.

He wore a woman’s slip to bed and no one breathed a word of complaint or offense. I found the next morning, when it was time for a shower, that he was hardly the only one to wear some item of women’s clothing. In that regard, I fit in completely and no one judged me. Usually, in situations like these, I resort to slight of hand and paranoia to conceal how I dress. 99.9% of the time, I insist upon strictest secrecy. That wasn’t necessary in this setting and I breathed several great sighs of relief.

Another man the age of my father had been born Mormon and had only recently accepted himself as he was. He harbored lots of resentment towards the church that had insisted he stay closeted. But even so, he showed up every morning for Bible study and usually sat next to me. His behavior at times overreached. Or to put it another way, he tried too hard.

He lived in a rural, conservative small town and took it upon himself as his personal crusade to protect queer youth from violence and suicide. He was obsessed in attracting attention to his cause. I wondered if his motives stemmed entirely from a genuine desire to help or an equally genuine desire to call attention to himself.

In my opinion, it was probably a bit of both. I’ve always challenged myself in Worship or beyond the four walls of the Meetinghouse to get to the seed (a good Quaker term) that pushes me towards God and away from self. For Friends, Worship is an ongoing event, one that does not conclude at 11:30 am on Sunday morning. Using that example, I’ve sought to take every available opportunity to commune with God.

Commune with your own motivations, but don't become shackled to them. For activists and reformers, don’t lose sight of your core initiatives, regardless of your cause. Don’t lose your temper or your composure. Leave room for the unexpected, even as you draw up your battle plans in ways that anticipate no surprises. Don’t let your frustration trick you into confusing allies with adversaries. Know that any hard line stance leaves no room for irony or spontaneity, both of which are essential for levity, sanity, and maybe even a few moments of mirthful laughter here and there.

Quote of the Week

"You might very well think that. You know I couldn't possibly comment."-Francis Underwood, House of Cards 

These Hit a Little Close to Home

Click to embiggen. Source here.

Saturday Video

Darlin' Companion
Come on and give me understanding
And let me be your champion
The hand to hold your pretty hand in

Darlin' Companion
Now you know you'll never be abandoned
Love will always light our landing
I can depend on you

Darlin' Companion
Heaven knows where we'll be landing
Just as long as we keep laughing
Keep in mind just what's worth having

Darlin' Companion
I'll tell the mountains and the canyons
As long as I got legs to stand on
I'm gonna run to you

Darlin' Companion
Come on and give me understanding
And let me be your champion
The hand to hold your pretty hand in

Darlin' Companion
Now you know you'll never be abandoned
Love will always light our landing
I can depend on you

Transition Beyond Surgery

Some fiction, some fact

Twenty Years Ago

It is the mid Nineties. Before the internet. Before cellular telephones. Before DVDs and Blu-ray players. Before live streaming. Before blogs. Before Tumblr and Facebook and Instagram. Before $4 a gallon gasoline and $10 a pack cigarettes. Before the legalization of same-sex marriage.

9:55 am. While waiting for Blockbuster to open, I look up to find my history professor. He’s rolled down the window and calls out to me. It seems he’s dropping off his daughter for her shift at work. He happens to spy me waiting patiently on the sidewalk for the store to open. It appears he had a second mission to accomplish before driving away.

You know that Jamie Davis really likes you. I thanked him for the news, though I’d mostly figured it out for myself. We were in the same class and I’d expressed my interest in her with great purpose and forcefulness. Success is always welcome news. It’s always good to know that one’s efforts in attracting a partner do occasionally have promise.

When I informed her myself what our professor had reported, she wished she’d been the messenger herself. At the time, I still lived with my parents, tucked inside a recently vacated apartment that had been built into the basement to provide my grandparents, who were in failing health, with a place to live. Both of them had passed on, leaving this fairly spacious space all to myself. A few days later, following class, I coaxed her to take a drive to my abode. I made sure that no one was around, and that my folks were at work.

We moved quickly to my bedroom, but at her insistence, my sweet talk stopped cold. After the buildup, I couldn’t understand why she balked at the last minute. From the first time that I so much as embraced her, she threw up boundaries and defenses. She wasn’t comfortable even in kissing me, which I thought was peculiar. No woman before had ever acted quite this way.

I could sense her discomfort. Don’t say, oh baby, baby. She could barely make eye contact. No other woman I had ever taken to bed had protested when I’d said that very same thing. I realized within a few awkward minutes that this pairing would never work. She pushed me aside, though not meanly. Was it my fault? What had I done wrong?

Instead, she requested that we reconvene at a nearby fast food restaurant, which seemed to please her in ways I never could. And yet, strangely, her attraction to me never subsided. This wasn’t the end, only the first encounter of many. With time, she returned to me as though the earlier experience had never happened. Together, we took tremendously impulsive risks, having cybersex inside very public computer terminals. That was all she wanted for now. Provided our intimacy never reached beyond safe fantasy, she had few objections. For a long while, I never understood why face to face interactions with me made her so uncomfortable.

Ten Years Ago

Jamie told me last week that she’s a lesbian. That would explain the earlier behavior. I have to say that I feel a little foolish, but her resistance earlier makes sense now in context. She’s even found a long-term partner, a woman she snagged off of MySpace. We still talk, but I’ve begun to have doubts and confusion about what she thinks about me. She certainly acts as though I am appealing to her, but these sentiments are always predicated on her own terms and at her own pace. To an extent, it's always been like that, but this is new territory for me.

Eight Years Ago

I have to say that I didn’t understand what transgender was until It was explained to me. Jamie now goes by Johnny and is saving up money for top surgery. But in the meantime, it makes sense now that the feelings of desire that the she I knew held towards me were authentic and not imaginary. Before, the label “lesbian” confused me. It connoted a lack of interest beyond friendship. He always had a desire to keep me close at hand, in a way most people do not. When most would have peeled away and eliminated contact altogether, he thought of me romantically and with great, heartfelt desire.

He posted a series of YouTube videos to show a visual representation of his progress on testosterone. I watched all of these, posted once a week, unsure what to expect next. It takes forever for facial hair to grow and it didn't come in as well as he liked. I observe his disappointment and am sorry for him. Not every transman experiences the same results from hormones. I learn this alongside Johnny, though at my own safe distance this time.

Six Years Ago

Having finally saved up the money for surgery, Johnny goes under the knife. He opts for top surgery, though he remarks with some sadness that he will always be a man with a vagina. He continues to take testosterone regularly and his clitoris grows considerably. He refers to it as a cock or a micro-dick, while nevertheless retaining large portions of female genitalia present in the body into which he was born. If he is viewed as a pre-pubescent boy, or called “sir”, he considers the money spent a success.

Five Years Ago

We swap pornography. His desire for me has not changed. Though he has a certain fondness for me, it’s not like I’m the only one waiting in the wings. He’s built up a network of kinky queers who satisfy his insatiable desires. Some female to male transsexuals born as biological women do not have sex like men, but he most certainly does. It’s one of the ways that I realize that, though he might have been born a woman, he’s the epitome of genderqueer. He's a blending between male and female, and I accept it even if it causes me to push away, as he did in the beginning.

Two Days Ago

Johnny only comes around for me every now and again. I am expected to provide him the necessary palette of emotions and erotic images necessary to produce an orgasm. Because I want to be anyone’s object of desire, even if I don’t have much enthusiasm for the task at hand, I go through the motions. I say what he wants me to tell him, and I’ve never failed in eventually producing what he’s really after. Sometimes, I have to admit, I feel that he’s using me for a sexual outlet. His feelings for me have never been stronger, but mine have waned over the years.

It’s if gender expectations have been reversed. He’s the sex-crazed man in constant search of a sexual outlet, and I’m the woman who doesn’t want to deny him the pleasure, in spite of my own doubts. When he appears online and initiates conversation, I know it won't be long before he lies all his cards down on the table.

A modicum of chitchat gives way to what he really wants from me. I wish I could get into the mood on command, but I’m just not wired that way. I sometimes feel that I am wanted only to produce a consistent, desired effect and pleasurable outcome. He is always in the mood, and I’d prefer a little foreplay beforehand. Maybe this is how straight women feel all the time.

I concede I am somewhere between male and female myself. Johnny reflects back at me how I am, and sometimes that image is too intense to produce much beyond insecurity and neurosis. I already scrutinize myself excessively. Viewing my body in the mirror is at times too painful to observe. Until I end it with Johnny, the cycle will continue. I could talk to him about my conflicted feelings, but I fear separation from anyone for any reason.

I’m afraid of having no one left in my life, which is why I’ve tolerated more than a few leeches and energy drains over the course of my life. I fear losing every last one of my friends or acquaintances. I expect them to desert me, which is why I never tell Johnny to cool it.