Let’s All Play to Our Strengths: I’ll Make the Coffee

My husband just popped his head out of his office. I could feel him peering at me tentatively. “Hello…” he began.

I turned around from where I’d been reading and writing at the dining room table my desk. Really, I’d just been trying not to make any sudden movements and wake up the dog, who has a propensity to be a close-talker and follow me everywhere I go when she’s awake.

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He continued: “If, at any time, you know, over the next hour or so you wanted to make coffee, that’d be really nice. I’d love a cup.”

I stared back at him for a moment. “Maybe you should just ask for what you want,” I replied.

He looked unsure but proceeded anyway. “I’m on a conference call. Can you make me a cup of coffee?” He paused for just a beat. “See why I didn’t want to do that? It sounds like you’re my secretary.”

“Yeah,” I concurred. “I thought that’s what I wanted you to say. But now I just want to punch you.”

Ah… marriage.

I made him the coffee, by the way. It’s brewing right now. He didn’t ask because he’s a chauvinist asshole who thinks that women should make the coffee. He just really sucks at making coffee. I have no idea how it goes so sideways. But it does, every time. So, I take mercy on him, and I make the coffee.

Truth be told, I like to do nice things for him now. There’s something about actively choosing the person that you’re with–and not at all in a theoretical sense–that brings clarity that every day is a choice. And so is kindness. And love. So, I make the coffee. To save him from himself.

It’s this constant refrain of choice in our relationship that makes me bristle when people hear about Simon’s transition and they utter a little sigh and say something akin to “Love is love.” It used to bother me because I thought such a glib statement somehow diminished my identity struggles. But now I hate it because it doesn’t honor the hard work we put in to stay together. It overlooks the absolute honesty with which we had to face each other–and ourselves. And it takes a helluva lot of bravery to be completely honest in a 10+ year marriage. The greeting card version of our relationship can’t even scratch the surface of what I feel for him–and the pain, and loss, and work it took to uncover those feelings. I am so proud of us. But none of this came easily.

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We laughed recently about how completely normal our lives are. I mean, on some level we must thrive on chaos, since once we got 100% on board with staying together, we moved. Then I decided I’d open a bookstore. But it’s normal in that nothing is imploding. And our lives don’t feel like constantly shifting sand anymore. In fact, our lives feel solid–like ground that we can build something real and lasting on.

The Nitty Gritty: A Review of There Goes Sunday School (Alexander C. Eberhart)

I had so many feels about this book, it’s hard to even get them into words. I love LGBTQ Young Adult novels. For real. They’re a gut-punch reminder of what it’s like to be young, falling in love, and figuring out your sexuality… while trying to navigate the impeding (and inevitable) doom of folks finding out you’re gay. Add into the mix that There Goes Sunday School is set in Atlanta… Totally swoon-worthy.

What I didn’t expect was for this YA novel to unearth so many feelings for me. I mean, I didn’t just relate to the protagonist… at one point I WAS the protagonist. Anti-gay upbringing? Check. Conservative Evangelical church? Check. Being told I was for sure gonna burn in hell? Check. But, perhaps especially when it’s rooted in pain, it turns out that representation is just as important at 43 as it is at 13. Watching my own story play out (with some significant plot deviations, of course) was cathartic.

Eberhart wrote believable characters with realistic responses to their surroundings and upbringings. He managed to create a tender novel that didn’t read as over-dramatized or simplistic. And he got in some wins for his characters that, for me at least, are incredibly important to see in print.

Being gay isn’t a tragedy. In fact, coming out and living into your truth is a victory. Even when it’s hard. Being who you are is worth risking everything for. And that’s a truth that everyone needs to hear more of.

Coming Soon…

Something new is about to happen at Rocket Fuel, y’all.

Wait, what’s Rocket Fuel?!?

It’s the place where I write about parenting and recovery and running and coffee. I cuss a lot. I ponder the big questions in life. I talk about my marriage. My spirituality. How my adulthood is shaping up–for better or worse.

Something new is about to happen at Rocket Fuel, y’all.

Wait, what’s Rocket Fuel?!?

It’s the place where I write about parenting and recovery and running and coffee. I cuss a lot. I ponder the big questions in life. I talk about my marriage. My spirituality. How my adulthood is shaping up–for better or worse.

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Good question!

The blog is called Rocket Fuel because it was launched in conjunction with Rocket Designs, where Simon designed & sold recovery shirts. (We picked “rocket fuel” because it wa kind of a play on my obsessive love for coffee.) The original idea for Rocket Designs was to scale the business, expand its reach, and become legends in the recovery world (or something kind of like that).

My first blog posts on Rocket Fuel were, in fact, centered around recovery. And it‘s true that I still write about recovery a lot. In fact, recovery underlies everything I write about, because without it, I would have none of the other amazing things I write about: my kid, my marriage, my health, my spirituality, my life. BUT I realized, after a while, that I didn’t want to overtly tie all my posts back to recovery.

And, while the Rocket Design shirts are still for sale on Redbubble, we never put the networking, marketing, and dedication into expanding the idea the way we originally thought we would.

But, while I still love coffee, Rocket Fuel seems kind of like a non-sequitur without being tied to Rocket Designs, no?

(If you want to check out Simon’s shirt designs, you can find them here: https://www.redbubble.com/…/collectio…/174232-rocket-designs)

Was It REALLY Just 3 Years Ago?

Today marks 3 years since Simon shared his transition with the world via facebook. It’s been a wild ride. I’m grateful to share this incredible journey with him.

Right in the middle of the morning craziness (the dog trying to eat a zip tie, the kid beseeching me for more screen time, and me wading through client social media while trying desperately to down that second cup of coffee), this popped on my Facebook feed:

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I mean, holy shit. That was a showstopper–just as much now as it was 3 years ago.

I went barreling into Simon’s office (he works at home. We both do. I know, I know) to show him. Because HOW was that only 3 years ago?!? It feels like a lifetime. But I can also feel that raw emotional turmoil (on my end) vividly like it was yesterday. It’s complicated–as most big life events tend to be, I suppose.

So what’s changed?

Simon. I mean, he’s a hell of a lot different than before he transitioned. And who wouldn’t be? He spent his whole life being misgendered and feeling a disconnect between who he was at his core and how people saw him. Once he transitioned, and people saw who he’d always been, that unease around people dissipated. I mean, he can still be hella socially awkward. It’s just one of the quirks that makes him so charming. But now, he’s at ease with who he is. He gets to walk through the world as the person he was always destined to be. It’s both so simple & so profound. It’s also a tremendous blessing, both for him and for the people who love him. I admire Simon’s bravery and his commitment to live out his truth. And I feel really honored to be part of his journey.

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Our relationship. Simon & I got a whole lot of “Love is Love” cheers when we stayed together after his transition. But, really, sometimes love isn’t enough. When Simon transitioned, deep down I believed that I would need to leave our relationship. Not because of him. But because of me. I didn’t think I could be attracted to a man. And being in a romantic relationship requires attraction. But, then, I was attracted to him. And that caused a huge identity crisis for me.

Good Lord, with the crises and chaos. 

The transition, our move to Atlanta, my emotional turmoil: it all pushed our relationship to the breaking point. We had a very clear, monumental decision to make: split up or stay together. After some push & pull, and a misstep or two, we chose to stay. Rebuilding has been a long, intense process. But there’s power in choosing each other again, after so many years of being together. For two people who are so wildly different, we really get each other. We’re a battle-tested team. No one around here will be throwing in the towel any time soon. Turns out that we love each other. A lot. (And, I feel that little surge of energy when we’re together, the one that tells me that I’m with the right person, that reminds me how much I love him. It’s wild. And a little exhilarating)

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My confidence. Simon’s transition made me feel incredibly vulnerable. I wanted to protect him. And me. In that bewildering and vulnerable state, I took a lot of shit from people that would never fly now. People asked really invasive questions (under the guise of “educating” themselves. Ahem. That’s what Google is for). They made all kinds of assumptions. Some folks bailed when I needed their support. It was a rough time. But now I know how to advocate for myself. And for my family.

Simon & I fly a Pride flag at our house, because we are out & proud members of the LGBTQ community. In our “normalness,” we are revolutionary. We are a symbol that things DO get better. That, sometimes, love really does win.

via Facebook http://ift.tt/2kJus4w by Simon Kellogg on 500px.com

 

 

 

(ETA: We’ve got a LOT of pictures from Disney. But not a lot of pictures of me & Simon. Odd. But we are. Odd, that is.)

It’s Who We Are

Outside our small, yellow house in Atlanta, a huge Pride flag waves in the breeze. I love that flag. It tells a part of our family’s story that is no longer easily visible.

The near unraveling of our marriage in 2016 broke something in me. I thought I’d try to piece it together, to come up with some patched, passable version of the life I wanted. But, sometimes, when something breaks, the best thing to do is clear away the wreckage and begin again.

I felt so shattered by Simon’s transition that, for a long time, I insisted that I was a lesbian and he was… well…him. But ultimately, insisting I am a lesbian doesn’t honor who Simon is. And, besides, it makes it harder to explain the cute, bearded guy I’m married to. Eventually, I settled on “queer” because it honors our whole story. And, really, it’s a story worth honoring.

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Photo Credit: RM Lathan

Watching Simon grow fully into himself has been profound. I respect the thought he puts into the kind of man he wants to be. It’s amazing (and unusual) to be privy to this kind of conscious choosing–choosing the way he moves in the world and how he wields his privilege.

Truth be told, Simon isn’t the same person he was before he transitioned. Not really. For a long time I wanted him to be. Sure, there are soul-elements that’ve shown that they’re impervious to change. And he still knows that I love chocolate covered marshmallows and that I’m afraid of birds. But big life events change us all.

I’ve spent a lot of time getting to really know and understand him over the past year and a half. I’ve found that I love this version of him. Really love. Not out of convenience. Or habit. But that daily I choose him.

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Photo Credit: RM Lathan

We’ve had to work hard to build a relationship after the Unraveling of 2016. When I wrote about it last Summer, I didn’t understand how far from done we were with the rebuilding. In fact, we’d barely begun.

That’s the trick about putting a marriage back together: it’s a process.

But, sometimes, when I look at him, I get that little spark that starts in my chest and zips down to my toes–the small bolt of lightning that feels like love. And I know we did right by each other.

Right now, our biggest problem is how to get our kid to stop rolling her eyes at us. And how to let folks know we are a queer family. I thought about just getting a shirt that says, “The cute bearded guy is trans.” But, I mean, would I have to wear it every day? He does have a collection of trans-themed t-shirts in his clothing rotation–and on those days we feel seen. But we haven’t found a good way to let folks know exactly who we are.

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His shirt totally says “This Is What Trans Looks Like.”

Right now, that giant Pride flag outside is our way of being visible, of declaring that things DO get better, and of being proud of our story. And of our love.

 

 

Pride Flag Photo: Peter Hershey on Unsplash

42 Things About Me

42 things about me… about life, infertility, parenthood, LGBTQ stuff, sobriety, and coffee (of course!)

In no particular order:

  1. I am a Virgo/Libra cusp. The cusp is crucially important. I bring it up every time someone asks about my zodiac sign.
  2. Chocolate covered marshmallows go down as my favorite food of all time.
  3. I’m the oldest of 2 kids. I’ve got a little sister.133657_497803774632_4055268_o
  4. When we were kids, my sister & I looked nothing alike. As we’ve gotten older, no one can seem to agree on whether we look nothing alike or just alike. 

  5. An inebriated young gentleman once wandered up to me in a bar and carried on a full conversation that I understood none of. He thought he was talking to my sister.
  6. I run. Running balances me out. It’s meditative for me. I both love it and hate it. But I do it often.375123_10151486290019633_714277389_n
  7. I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was 8 years old.
  8. A trusted adult told me I couldn’t be a writer–that I’d never make enough money to live on. I believed them. I regret that.
  9. When I was a teenager, I was a hellfire & brimstone Christian.
  10. I am still a Christian, although not that kind.
  11. It is easier for me to tell people I am queer than to tell people I am a Christian. Christians in American exhibit all kinds of hateful behavior that I’d prefer not to be associated with.
  12. At various points in my life, I’ve struggled with anxiety and/or depression. It is part of my story. It in no way defines who I am.
  13. I came out when I was 19 years old.94571603_020d5ef0ed_o
  14. My family was displeased.
  15. I had the same girlfriend all the way through college. She is still part of my everyday life. We are not together (and haven’t been since 1998).
  16. Being queer is a core part of my identity. It has made me who I am.
  17. Until about 3 years ago, I identified as a lesbian.
  18. Then my partner transitioned from female to male. That complicated things in every sense of the word.
  19. I now identify as queer. It makes the cute guy I am with all the time less confusing to other people.29683110_10156215924602889_6613959919811764476_n
  20. I’ve come to believe in the fluidity of sexuality. It no longer frightens me. Identity can be fluid & still be important.
  21. It’s been fascinating to watch my husband, Simon, navigate creating his own version of masculinity. I’m proud of the path he’s forging.
  22. Simon and I have one child, Jane.IMG_6017
  23. It took 2 years to conceive her.
  24. I’ve been pregnant 4 times. I only have one child. She is a miracle.
  25. Jane calls Simon “Bobby.”5897461755_cdfc42fae7_z
  26. She used to call him “Baba” and me “Mama.” When she was just over a year, Jane heard me say I wished she’d call me “Mommy.” She started calling me Mommy right away. She also started saying “Bobby” all the time. “What’s a bobby?” I’d ask. She’d giggle and yell, “What a bobby!” We finally figured out that she assumed if Mama=Mommy then Baba must equal Bobby. She’s going to be AMAZING at the SATs.
  27. Simon transitioned when Jane was 4.
  28. We immediately put her in therapy.
  29. About 3 months in, the therapist looked at us and said, “You know she doesn’t need to be here, right?”
  30. We read Jane the picture book Red: A Crayon’s Story to explain her Bobby’s transition. She understood right away.
  31. I’ve been sober for almost a decade.26546_366357324632_4758338_n
  32. Getting sober was the best decision I ever made. It’s the reason I have all the beautiful things in my life.
  33. I got sober in AAI no longer go to meetings. I still think AA is a stellar way to get sober.
  34. I’ve had the same best friend since I was 18 years old. 

  35. She’s loved me through a hell of a lot. I am really grateful.
  36. If you ask me what I want to eat, I’m going to pick Mexican food.
  37. I look almost exactly like my mother.10250053_10152195642889633_5883091160908392911_n
  38. Sometimes I laugh so hard I have to sit down–no matter where I am.
  39. I’ve written a middle grades novel. It’s not been published. Yet.
  40. The older I get, the more I settle in to who I am. I’m happier now than I’ve ever been.IMG_6228
  41. We moved to Atlanta 2 years ago this July. I adore Atlanta. It is home for me.
  42. I hate small talk but love people. I want to talk about things like religion, politics, books, life philosophies. And I prefer to do so over coffee.

Bonus Disney Picture Collage! (Disney is kinda our thing)

 

For more stories, happenings, and general shenanigans follow me over on Facebook at Writerly Atlanta & on Instagram at writerlyatl.

3 Things That Were

A gritty, honest exploration of change, loss, and joy as it’s unfolded in my life.

I was a drunk. Before I took the first swig of cheap whiskey, this was my truth. But its burning release convinced me that salvation resided at the bottom of a bottle. I was a drunk and so I tracked my ovulation obsessively, discussing pregnancy probabilities over happy hour drinks. I was a drunk and a lesbian, and so I borrowed some sperm off a friend’s husband, inserted it into my vagina—with a syringe. No turkey basters here—and then downed bourbons to celebrate my first step toward motherhood. My partner and I agreed to refer to the embryo-in-waiting as Tank. If it survived that level of inebriation, it’d surely be a rough and tumble little guy. I was a drunk and so I popped Clomid with cocktail chasers. I’d spend plenty of time—9 months of it—sober after I got knocked-up. No need to over-achieve. I was a drunk and so I planned on boozy playdates, if the damn kid would ever get here already. I was a drunk and so I went to inseminations hungover, the previous night’s indiscretions emanating from my freshly scrubbed skin. I was a drunk and so I believed I could wash off shame, hide it, hide me. I was a drunk and so one day I walked into a mish-mash of strangers, sat down, surrendered, and 12-stepped my way back into sanity. I was a drunk. And then I wasn’t.

I was pregnant. Blood draws, inseminations, peeing on sticks. Jockeying to order frozen specimens for perfectly timed delivery. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Ticking off days. Willing my way to two weeks. Then, trepidatiously peeing on a stick. Bargaining with God that if this time it would be different… I never finished that promise. What could I offer God, after all? I’d wait the requisite two minutes, add an extra 30 seconds on for good measure, and then look down. NOT PREGNANT. Such a bold proclamation. So impervious to my begging and pleading. Sometimes, instead of a NOT PREGNANT insult from a pee-soaked stick, I’d wake up a day or two before our interminable two week wait to a torrent of blood. Bright red. My own body mocking me. But one time, this one time the gods of the pee-stick gave in. PREGNANT. I waited. I pulled out another stick. Peed again. PREGNANT. I was pregnant and so the torrent of blood work started. HGC levels. Were they rising? Yes. Yes. I was pregnant and so check again. Check again. Poke. Prod. I was beatific. I was pregnant, and so we scheduled our first ultrasound. 5 weeks. Woosh. Woosh. Woosh. That heartbeat made me believe. Finally. I was pregnant and so, we scheduled the next ultrasound. 7 weeks. Woosh. Woosh. Woosh. But fainter. The sonogram tech called for the doctor. They measured the images. A little small, it seemed. The embryo seemed a little small. But there’s still a heartbeat, they cheered. The air left the room. I nodded when they asked me to come back in two weeks. They’d check again, they said. Maybe it would be okay. I was (still) pregnant, so I made an appointment. 9 weeks. Silence. I was pregnant. And then I wasn’t.

I was married to a woman. We fell in love over loss—I’d lost my way. She’d lost her brother. We sat in a bar, proding our wounds. “Will you always light my cigarette for me?” I asked. “If you’ll always look at me like that,” she responded, coy. We lost ourselves in each other—lustily, drunkenly. Then, like children reprimanded for impropriety, we agreed to set about playing house. The play was a farce. I was married to a (drunk) woman, and so 5 years later, we packed up our (emotional) baggage and shipped it off accompanied by all the whiskey in the house. We showed bits of ourselves timidly to each other. Sober felt stark, devoid of blurry edges. We, at long last, knit together enough hopes, dreams, Clomid, and donor sperm to make a baby. She came into this world, pulled out of my belly, fist high in the air. An indomitable spirit. Four years later, the woman I married said, “I am not who you think I am. I am not who I thought I was.” I was married to a woman, and so began a season of becoming—of transition—for us. I was married to a woman. And then I wasn’t.

Photo Credit: Georgia de Lotz on Unsplash