The Big Reveal

My daughter was born a girly girl. Her first word after the parental syllables was "shoe." She was boy crazy at four, passing toys to the neighbor boy between the chain link fence next to our townhouse. By the time she was eight, she'd had more boyfriends than I had in my life. She did ballet for ten years. She giggled in the back seat with her friends about high school dances and holding hands with boys on the ferris wheel. Her favorite color was pink. Or purple. She adored makeup.

She was the stereotypical girl.

She also loves to play the guessing game when she's afraid to tell me something. Which she did ten days ago. It goes something like this:

D: I have to tell you something.
Me: Okay....
D: Only I don't want to.
Me: Okaaay.... (immediately irritated)
D: Well, I want to tell you, but I don't.
Me: .......... (rolling my eyes and heavy-sighing)
D: It's just... I wish you just knew already.
Me: How can I know if you don't tell me?
D: ......
Me: Fine. You had sex.
D: No.
Me: You got drunk.
D: No.
Me: You got in another accident.
No.
You quit your job.
No.
You're friends with that horrible girl again.
No.
You're pregnant. (Because after exhausting the obvious and the stupid, I start throwing out the crazy.)
No.
You're gay. (AmI right? This girly girl? Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.......)

She looks at the refrigerator. The girl has zero poker face.
But you're kidding, right?
No.
You can't be serious.
Yes, Mom.

............

I'd had a cocktail at this point and quickly gulped down the equivalent of another shot. Remember the stereotypical girl? Which I asked her. Or, rather, told her. "You were always boy crazy." Yes, she thought she was, but then she wasn't. But what about her boyfriends? What about drooling over Josh Hutcherson and Ian Somerhalder? What about, what about, what about?

I took a quick break in the bathroom where I furiously texted my best friend. "Don't judge, I said." Her response? "Oh God, what did you do???" When I told her what it really was she said, "We have always supported the gay community. Now it's just time to prove it." Okay......

Yes, I was in shock. It was the last thing I imagined from D. I knew her. I gave birth to her. I held her and cradled her and met all of her needs as an infant. It wasn't that I was against it. I wasn't and I'm not. I had even commented to friends in front of her that I would accept having a gay child but I would mourn my dream of what I thought they would be. That was what she remembered. That is what stuck in her heart and why she was so afraid to tell me.

So I finished my drink and I tried to let her talk. I tried to ask the accepting questions, all the while my brain was reeling from the news. I told her over and over that I'm not disappointed. Not like she thought I would be. It's not necessarily disappointment, but an adjustment. I have to shift my thinking.

When she was a senior in high school, she was temporarily but extremely suicidal. I reminded her that I would take her and keep her any way I could get her but I never want to lose her. I told her she could see how it felt without choosing labels yet. She told me she was confused. Ah, confusion. It's not real. Just a phase.

Now, if anyone thinks at any point thus far that I said the wrong thing or reacted the wrong way, you're entitled to that opinion. But if you're just not prepared for something, you can't predict your reaction. This outcome had just never occurred to me. Not in a million years.

The next day was a struggle between reassuring her that I do love and accept her, which I completely do, and balancing my own confused feelings. I asked if she was sure because she had been confused the night before. No, she was talking about being confused when it all started for her. Oh. Well, damn.

My second concern was for her safety. My whole life has been about protecting her. It's my job. I'm not so afraid that she will be physically harmed, but the thought of someone slamming her with vulgarity while she walks hand-in-hand with a girlfriend makes me want to rip an imaginary asshole. It's hard to embrace something that I think will hurt her.

It's been a process. I'm still processing it. A few days after she came out, I asked if she was sure this isn't just a phase. I got the hateful teenage reply that basically identified me as in insensitive dinosaur.

The next day I asked how long she'd known. Since freshman year of high school, which equals five years. I had known for five days. She agreed this wasn't fair and allowed me to ask any and all questions I had, which I prefaced by saying that I'll always love her and I will get to the point where I openly accept and embrace this "new" identity but that it will take time. I asked questions I didn't really want answers to. We supported each other throughout the conversation.

My emotions have been all over the map and probably around the globe a dozen times. I'm scared for her. I felt deceived by her and lied to. I have to clarify that these are not rational emotions, but we can't control feelings. I can't. I felt that if I had been a better mom I would have known. How the fuck did I miss THIS one??

There have been other thoughts too. I was never hung up on having a son-in-law. Weddings with two brides are often beautiful. I halfway adopted a handful of her friends growing up anyway, I'm used to it. Plus she's promised me I will have grandbabies. That's all I really care about, I'm just asking for a couple extra now.

Over the last year, I have been worried about her capacity to love. We moved to Nashville and she went through half a dozen boys in a matter of months. She seemed to get bored or to lose interest really quickly. Of course I blamed myself for divorcing her father and for dragging her through the subsequent Bad Relationship. All of this must have affected her ability to be intimate, to love someone. Now it's somewhat of a relief that might not be the case. I want her to love deeply and be loved to the core of her being. I'm not going to be able to choose that person anyway, so why should I choose their gender?

She had the brilliant millennial idea of coming out on Facebook. I didn't expect that today she'd be ready. Always keeping me on my toes, that one. The shooting in Orlando over the weekend was her motivation. She's scared now. She should be. I'm scared for her. And yesterday we went to the vigil downtown because I wanted her to be with people like her and to see that there is love in the fear. I want her to know that she's supported, that even if I can't be there always to protect her, I will do everything in my power to ensure that she feels loved and supported. She said she wanted to be brave. The truth is, this wasn't just an act of bravery. Brave is what she is. She's been brave with her depression, she's been brave with making her own choices about her future and she's brave now to come out when it would be safer to hide.

Her responses so far have been overwhelmingly supportive. I suspect there are some who aren't and they're just staying quiet and that's okay. Their silence still speaks and she knows it. I wonder how my own friends and family will react. I wasn't going to say anything until she was ready, but now that she's just jumped into the deep end, I'm jumping with her.

I'm still scared. All the more so now. I've avoided much of the news from Orlando because it hits too close to home this time. My best friend says it always should have been personal, and she's right. I just lived in a smug little straight-privileged bubble when I thought my child wouldn't be targeted. I'm flying the PFLAG now. I have to be as brave as she is.

I was never in love with anyone the way I was when this precious child came into my life. Never since and I never will be again. The thought of someone taking that from me, or from any other parent, chills me to the bone. Nobody has the right to take love from us. I am scared, but I will not live in fear. I will love her and I will love people like her and I will stand with them and next to them.

I'm proud of her. I'm proud of Nashville, our city. Last night's vigil gave me hope. Hope that I won't have to be afraid forever. Hope that love will prevail. Hope that she will love and be loved.

That's all any of us can hope for, really.

Like a Giant Push-Up

Last week I was veering dangerously close to a depressive episode. I felt it coming, heard the rumbling in the distance. The days leading up to Friday were fraught with events and activities that were draining any emotional energy I was trying to hold onto. I was running on empty. The temptation to hide under my covers until the storm passed was great. This happens to me on occasion. Sometimes I know why, sometimes I don't. This time I knew exactly why and I feared exposing myself to further energy drain and risking a deeper depression.

All of this is to say that Nashville surprised me. Nashville fits me more the longer I'm here.

Friday was a long-awaited burlesque show, which included dinner beforehand with new friends. Having to be "on" around new people is risky when I'm on the edge like I was. I know I was a little bit manic in my animation to make up for what was lurking under the surface of my skin, but it was manageable. (Manageable mania - oxymoron?) The show itself was wonderful and inspiring and full of acceptance and love, the way that burlesque is intended. There were hugs and laughter and beautiful costumes and quirky routines. It was just what the doctor ordered. If the doctor prescribed boobs and pasties.

Saturday the bestie and I went to see Stephen King speak. I wasn't sure how it would play out, I knew it wasn't a typical book signing with so many people there. SO many people. So MANY. People! The line wrapped around the building. Around the alley, behind the bars on Broadway. During CMA Fest. Cigarettes and drunk people and sewage liquid on the road. In the heat. The hot, hot southern heat. The Ryman was hot. Crowded. Sold out. Over-stimulating. Between the crowds, the confusion, and the odors, I was nearing a meltdown.

Ann Patchett walked out onto the stage. I feel a bit smug knowing that I can go into her business space any time I want at Parnassus Books. It's like my little nerd privilege. So I perked up. She introduced Donna Tartt to introduce Mr. King. Her small speech reminded me that it's okay to be different. It was beautiful and heartfelt and touching, without any pandering sweetness.

When Stephen King walked onto that stage, he was greeted with a standing ovation. There was an immediate sense that we all, in that audience, shared a common ideation in our love of writing, of books, and of a certain author, if not authors in general.

I want so badly to remember every word he spoke. He didn't only talk about writing, or his creative efforts, but he also gave us glimpses into who he is as a person. Someone who is not only a brilliant and prolific writer, but a humble family man with a wicked sense of humor. He curses in the exact appropriate places and he's just academically intimidating enough without being a boorish snob.

The whole experience of being in his presence, of sharing fellowship with others who chose to forego music festivals and street revelry to talk about a shared love of books, left me with a full heart and renewed soul, knowing it will never be duplicated because momentous events like that are rare and precious.

I woke up Sunday to the news of the tragic shooting in Orlando. Tragic shooting. Act of terrorism. Loss of lives. Devastation. How do I put what happened into words that make sense when the act itself doesn't? How to define the emotions. The anger, the fear, the complete what-the-fuck and why-is-this-happening-again. The overwhelming sadness and desperation to control something that can't even be predicted because who thinks of doing things that are so terrible when you're just going about your life and you're celebrating that life in a way that doesn't hurt another person and yet you and the people you care about are targets of something that can only be described as hate. Random hate because how can you even hate faces you've never met?

I don't understand it and I will never understand it and I'm tired of trying to understand it because there is no reason, no justification. Because it wasn't 50 people. It was 50 plus those who loved them currently plus those who knew and loved them last year plus those they were meant to affect and love and be loved plus the impacts they had that they don't know and we don't know and will now never know. 50 plus 150 times 18 plus infinity. It is indirectly countless people around the world. How does one person cause so much hurt?

Our mayor in Nashville, Megan Barry, posted on Facebook. She and other members of our local government and our police department organized a vigil for the victims. I knew I had to go. Whatever it meant on whatever scale, I needed to be among that support. I needed to contribute with my paltry presence. By that point I wasn't able to connect at an individual level with anyone there and had a hard time feeling like I belonged, but my body needed to be there.

Despite the disconnect, I was proud of the people who were there. The mayor. The police. The members of the city council. Those holding flags and posters. Those who changed what plans they had to show up and be present and to be heard. I know I planned on watching Game of Thrones last night and resting up for the week, not spending yet more emotional energy on things I can't make sense of.

Our city was beautiful last night. There were rainbow lights. Candle lights. Faces of determination. Hugs and displays of support. The noise came from the music in the bars, sounds of joy. Inspirational speeches and choir voices raised in community spirit.

Although I felt sad, the storm of depression had abated. I lay in bed feeling all of the support I had received over the weekend. The support that Nashville gives to the arts, whether it be burlesque or literature. The support of the LGBT community. I felt over and over that Nashville cares about the things and the people that I care about. In each instance I felt a sense of belonging and of validation. The connections brought me back from the loneliness of depression.

So, Nashville, thank you for being the giant push-up bra that held me together, that lifted me up, and that kept my emotions from sagging and dragging me down.

The One We're All Ignoring

Yesterday D and I participated in one of our favorite mother/daughter activities. We went to the ballet and we had a wonderful time. This isn't, however, a review of that or a comment on our relationship. This is about something I wish didn't exist in the world or, at the very least, in this country.

D takes eons in the shower. I am forever telling her to hurry up. Nineteen years of "hurry up." I had plans to go to Pancake Pantry and indulge in some Chocolate Sin before the ballet. We ran out of time so we stopped at Panera instead because it was on the way and fast enough. I despise being late, missing out on a chocolate craving, and having to drive like a maniac so I wasn't in the best mood.

While we were sitting there, by the window, scarfing down our soup and salads, D pointed to a woman sitting on the curb outside. "She's homeless and she has a little girl." Indeed, there sat a woman with a little girl who looked to be about four. I couldn't see her sign from where I sat, but I was disconcerted enough. If you have a stereotype of what a homeless woman and her daughter look like, they didn't fit it. They were neatly dressed, hair combed, talking to each other.

A very sweet man bought them some food from Panera; he took them sandwiches and water. I couldn't hear them, but they looked grateful. The woman took a sandwich out of one of the bags and unwrapped it to hand to her small child. I didn't see her eat so I don't know if she was saving her meal for herself for later or for her daughter.

D and I decided that we would give them something as well. I've been carrying an unused Subway gift card in my car for a time like this. We gathered together the few dollars we had, mine scrounged from the bottom of my purse.

I was able to read her sign when we pulled up in front of them. "PLEASE HELP. I lost my job and I am pregnant." The rest of it said something about needing money for gas, which I'm assuming she needs to both find another job and to get to that job. My heart broke for her.

The little girl got up to come get the money and gift card we offered. She was adorably sweet and absolutely precious. She should have been spending the afternoon playing in the beautiful fall weather rather than accepting money and food from strangers. She thanked us politely and the mother thanked us repeatedly and genuinely.

Entering the freeway, I told Devon that because she was late, we were given that opportunity. She looked at me like I had just insulted her, not realizing that I really meant it. Had she been on time, we would have eaten food that we didn't need, making gluttons of ourselves. Instead, we were given an opportunity to help someone and I was truly grateful for both the opportunity and the gift of gratitude itself.

But secondly, and maybe more importantly, I was so disappointed that I live in a community and in a country where this is allowed to happen. Where a family lives on the verge of poverty on a daily basis and the loss of one paycheck can send them to the street. Where mothers have to swallow their pride to feed their children and their unborn babies. Where their sacrifices are far more than lost sleep or a few stretch marks.

We are heavily into election season and, while I haven't yet paid attention to what is happening on the democrat side, I have been made acutely aware of the opinions of the GOP. I know they are focusing on the rights of gun owners, and immigration reform, spending large amounts of time blaming our current president, and gleefully trying to strip away the rights of women, largely in the form of defunding Planned Parenthood.

If this mother I saw can't afford to buy gas for her car, then I doubt she has money for prenatal care. She is choosing life, she's choosing to give life. Planned Parenthood is probably the best resource for her, but those in power want to take this away from her. Why? When abortions account for only 3% of the services they provide, what about the other 97%? What about this woman sitting on a curb holding a sign so she can hold her family together?

And nowhere in either of the debates did I hear anyone talk about women like her. Or men like her. I know there are plenty of single dads out there working just as hard to make ends meet, but hers is the face I will see when I think of the unfairness in this country. Hers and that of her little girl with the brown curls, dressed in pink.

We give lip service to these issues occasionally. Myself included. I handed a stranger a restaurant gift card and a few dollars. I'm telling you about it. In two days I leave for a vacation where I will have unlimited access to food I can gorge myself on and I will let go of all cares, including this one. I have that luxury.

We all have luxuries. We all have it better than someone else. I don't want to pay lip service. I want to do more. I want us all to do more. The only thing I have hope for right now is that enough people helped that woman yesterday, and maybe in the next week or so, that she can get back on her feet and this will be a great inconvenience to her rather than a new way of life. I really, really hope so. But unless we change as a society, there will be someone different sitting at that corner tomorrow. I might not see her. I  might be on time for my decadent chocolate breakfast. I might be so busy rushing to the next errand or to meet friends or to my job that I don't see her.

So my other hope is that you also miss brunch or you have to stop for gas and your eyes are open. I hope that you see people who need help and that you offer that help. I hope you pay attention at the polls. I hope you choose to elect those who care, even if they are far and few between. I hope you participate in your communities. I hope that you don't pass judgment or turn a blind eye.

I know that I won't continue to be haunted by the faces of this mother and her little girl for long, but I hope I am.

Time for Change

Friday's school shooting is still in the headlines and still resonating with parents and will continue to do so. It is unfathomable what that community is going through. It is beyond understanding for me as a parent. I hate that I have to talk to my daughter about it when I have no answers. I hate hearing that her teachers are making escape plans and discussing them with her. I hate that she is now also afraid to go to school. School should be a safe place. A place where kids learn, not just about academics, but about friendship, how the world works, and what it is to grow up. This isn't how the world is supposed to work.

The knee-jerk reaction to this tragedy is gun control. Guns are bad. Guns kill people. I am certainly not advocating for guns. They frighten me and I don't understand the attraction to going out and shooting things up. I didn't grow up with hunters. But I do understand that thousands and thousands of people in this country own guns and those people could never conceive of using them in a way that the alleged killer did. There are people who respect guns and teach everyone around them how to use them properly. So I don't think that guns are the issue. Because happy, well-adjusted people don't take guns into school and take innocent lives just because these weapons are available.

It is time to look at the kinds of individuals that commit these horrendous crimes. What leads them to believe that taking lives, including their own, is the solution? These people are not well. They are also suffering.

I live with depression. For myself and my daughter. I can tell you that it looks very frightening at times. It feels frightening. And while seeing someone have a panic attack can be scary, it's even worse for the person having it. To be unable to leave the body and the mind that feels so uncomfortable leaves one feeling hopeless and trapped.

My daughter seems to struggle more. Whether it's her age or her particular illness, she is having a really hard time. Because she's a girl, she turns her fear and anger and confusion onto herself. As the mother who snuggled her for hours as a baby and relished in her experiences and watching her grow, this breaks my heart. I hate that I can't fix it. I hate that I can't change it and make it all magically go away. It confuses me. It feels like my fault. Because I'm her mom, so it has to be, right?

I am going to share something I'd rather not, but in the hope that it helps someone else. I didn't want to believe that she was feeling so bad. I blamed it on hormones and being lazy and spoiled and anything else that could make it her fault, make it a behavior that I could change. I minimize her feelings. I yelled at her. I took away privileges. I pretended it wasn't that bad. She was making it up. I couldn't be the kind of parent whose child has serious issues. I was raised better than that.

Denial is so dangerous.

Because it is that bad. I simply can't ignore it. Not when her therapist tells me it's bad. And her school counselor. Not when she suddenly does something that is so frightening to me I am afraid of really hurting her. I have to admit that there is something wrong. Ignoring it makes it worse. I'm not a perfect parent. And while I've always joked about that, I've never taken it to heart like I have recently. I had to set my ego aside so that I can be there for her. So I can really listen and be able to offer her the love and support she really needs. So I can do everything possible to help her out of the dark places that she gets lost in.

Girls, on average, turn in on themselves. While I worry for her, and hate the things she says and feels about herself, I only have to worry about her, and about my feelings and how to help her. Boys, on the other hand, typically turn all of their anger and confusion and rage outward. And, if D were a boy with the feelings she is having, I would be worried about the people around her. Because these are the kind of people that commit unspeakable acts of violence.

I am not taking away anything from anyone who has been through this experience, but there are other victims in these crimes. How much does a person have to hurt that destroying the lives of others is the only way out they can think of? How many times and in how many ways do they ask for help before this is their last resort?

Because D asked me for help. More than once. I am fortunate enough that I listened before it was too late and there was nothing to listen to.

We, as parents, have to listen to our kids when they ask for help. We have to put aside our own agendas and fears and feelings of failure because our children need us.

Nobody asks for mental illness. Nobody gets it and thinks, "Hey, this is pretty great." And for children, they don't even know what it is. They just know that something is wrong, they don't feel good. That scares them and confuses them. Babies don't understand what hunger is, they just need something and so they cry. Children can't articulate what they're feeling in much the same way.

We, as a society, need to be more empathetic to the disabilities of others. We need to look at a child or a family and recognize that they might need a little more help, rather than turning our backs in irritation or disgust. It is time that we start advocating for mental health. There are no easy answers, but there is a starting point.

Enough is enough. There has been enough loss. Enough sadness. Enough blame. It's time to look for real answers, have some understanding, compassion, and act from kindness. Kindness towards those who are struggling, whether it's an individual with a mental illness or the family members who care about them.

We have a responsibility to each other as basic human beings. Let's humanize this issue so that it doesn't happen to another child or family or community.