Explaining Psychological Burnout in Haikus

When you go to the doctor and say, "I feel completely burned out," they sometimes give you a little questionnaire to fill out.

Last week, I got 90% on that questionnaire.  

That's not a good score, kids. It's not like normal tests, where you want a high score. I did not get a gold star for that one.

It seems this year has left me pretty depleted. It explains why my creativity is in the toilet, my energy is so low, and why I don't really give a shit about a lot of things right now.

It's hard to explain burnout to someone who's never been burned out. I mean, I think we've all been there to some degree, but the intensity of where I find myself today is a whole new shiny ball of shit. It's not that this year has been awful; it's just been draining. Much good has happened, but it's a tiring sort of good. Like a having newborn baby or 12. 

Then, throw in the fact that I've been doing the same job for 18 years (with my kids), and it's no wonder I'm feeling burned out. This job has no paycheque, involves intense multitasking, is often overwhelming, and my bosses are can be a bit... demanding. Like, OMG WHY CAN'T THERE BE ONE HOMECOOKED MEAL EVERYBODY CAN AGREE ON? AND IF YOU WHINE AT ME ONE MORE TIME TODAY I'M GOING TO SEAL MY BEDROOM DOOR UP WITH CEMENT AND BARBED WIRE.

You know, just little things like that.

Thankfully, the benefits are good. Like, I'm in my jammies right now and eating foil-wrapped Christmas chocolate balls. It rules. Find me another job where I could do that.

All joking aside, I can't blame anyone but me for this one. I spread myself too thin, I ignored my own needs, I didn't listen to the warning signs - and there were many. My body and brain have been screaming at me to take a step back. My friends and family have said the same. I haven't. I scoffed. I really thought I could do it all. And now I'm paying the price for that.

So, for now, I need to slow down. I need to scale back my responsibilities as much as possible, take a lot more time for myself, and get some rest. I'm going to focus more on writing (for pleasure, like on this blog), painting and photography. All my loves. And I'm going to spend a lot of time hanging out with my partner and kids.

If you know me personally, I should tell you I'm going to be saying "no" a lot more and will be setting firm boundaries around how I use my time and energy. Please don't take it personally. I totally still love you. It's really about getting my health back on track and has nothing to do with you. Responsibilities and expectations that I don't have to take on are the ones that are going to go first. I need to put my time and energy where it's needed most. 

In short, give me some time and I'll be back to my old self again. But probably better. I just need to recharge and I'll be all up in your faces again. I'm a gift that keeps on giving, like cold sores.

I've been trying to write this post for a while. But, of course, with burnout, I've been less than motivated. My friend Melissa suggested I do it in Haiku. Challenge accepted.

Burnout, as explained in a series of Haikus

With this here burnout

Coffee fuels all the things

Put it in my mouth

Dirty first haiku

Look where my mind is going!

Maturity? No.

Sweeping year of change

The current pulled me under

Swimming my way back

Apathy is king!

Ask how many fucks I give

Wait. Don't. That is work.

Bed so soft and warm

We totes do each other's nails

We are, like, best friends

Concentration? Ha!

There is none of that, my friends

Only chocolate

Want to hang out, guys

But energy is fleeting

Saying no means sleep

"Set boundaries, yo!"

Therapist puts her foot down

(She does not say "yo")

Burnout will go away

With time and fuzzy slippers

And hugs and Netflix

Still fighting for her

Tiring, advocacy is

But so worth it too

With change comes growth

Like trees in bloom or something

Haikus have trees, k?

During this time

I will be kind to myself

So awesome am I

And so good looking

See? That had five syllables

It was meant to be

Maven's still got it

Despite all the tired and meh

Pass the coffee, bitch

Why My Daughter is My Hero

Copyright: www.themavenofmayhem.com All rights reserved

Last week, something potentially disastrous happened: My daughter was misgendered.

In case you're not knee-deep in transgender terms like the nerd-turned-ally that is me, I'll let Google explain: to misgender is "to refer to someone, (especially a transgender person) using a word, especially a pronoun or form of address, that does not correctly reflect the gender with which they identify."

In other words, my transgender child, who identifies as a girl and presents as such, was labeled as a boy. It was a younger child who made the faux pas. And while it's happened before (and I'm sure will happen again), this situation was particularly cringe-worthy because it did not stop for what felt like forever.

It went a little something like this:

Younger kid: "So this is Spawnling's brother, Gutsy?"

Me: "No. This is Spawnling's sister, Gutsy."

Younger kid: "That's a sister? Gutsy's a girl?"

Me: "Yes, she is."

Younger kid: "Really? Gutsy, you're actually a girl?"

Gutsy: "Yep. I am."

Younger kid: "No, seriously. Spawnling, Gutsy is your sister?!"

Spawnling: "Dude. It's a long story. Don't worry about it. Gutsy is definitely my sister, ok?"

Younger kid to Gutsy: "Oooook, then. I guess you're a girl who looks exactly like a boy. That's so weird." *shrugs and runs off to play*

I need to state, right off the bat, that this is a good kid. He's funny and sweet and young and was just taken off guard, I guess. He doesn't know our family or its history, and this was the first time he had met Gutsy.

But wow, if I didn't feel punched in the gut right then. I can't imagine being misgendered in my day-to-day life; the idea that the world sees me as I see myself is something I've always taken for granted until recently. But to be a 12-year-old trans kid and have that happen? Ouch.

I would love to tell you that I knew exactly what to say, that I was able to swoop in and educate and make everything better. But I was so taken aback by what had just transpired that it rendered me absolutely speechless (such a rarity, if you ask anyone who knows me.)

So many thoughts ran through my mind. What kind of damage control could I possibly do? He had already said what was undoubtedly a very hurtful thing to my child, the fragile young girl who stepped out of the closet only a few months ago and was just starting to find her wings. She's the one I delicately bubble wrap in a little homeschooling world right now, making sure she's not overly exposed to the cruelties that wait just beyond our front door.

And now this? In our own home? I didn't know what to do.  I didn't know what to say. I didn't know all the things. My heart was pounding.

How was she feeling after that exchange?

As it turns out, just fine. The conversation with her a few minutes later in her room went a little something like this:

Me: "Hey, are you ok?"

Gutsy: "Yeah. Why?"

Me: "Well, because I was worried about you after what Spawnling's friend said."

Gutsy: "Oh, that? Whatever. It's fine."

Me: "Really? Are you sure you're ok?"

Gutsy: "Yeah, mom, really. It's not a big deal. He's just a little kid. He can think what he wants."

So I smiled, gave her a kiss on the top of the head and walked out. And that should have been that - except it wasn't. It stayed with me, even if it didn't stay with her. For the last few days, I've been haunted by it, because I knew I wouldn't feel ok after that. So how could she?

Gutsy took me out for coffee a few minutes ago. Not the cheap kind, either. That girl loves her mom. On the way there, I said, "Can I ask you a question? Are you really ok with what happened with Spawnling's friend?"

"Yeah, I'm totally fine with it, mom. Honestly," she replied, her tone strong and positive.

"Ok. I believe you. You sound fine. I know this isn't the first time someone has said something insensitive to you. But can you tell me something? How do you just let stuff roll off your back like that? I have such a hard time when someone insults me, whether they mean it or not. Can you teach me?" And I meant it, because I've struggled my entire life with how the world views me and how accepted I am by others. It's getting better, but I'm still a giant work in progress. Falling dysfunction. Hard hats required on site.

"It's easy, mom," she explained so matter-of-factly. "I know who I am. I know who I want to be. Other people's opinions don't matter because I know who I am inside. That's all there is to it. I know me."

I sat in silence for a moment, letting her words sink in, this not-so-delicate flower with more fierceness in her than I could ever imagine. "Wow, honey. Just... Wow. Do you know how long it takes most people to figure that out, if they ever do? It's taken me a lifetime. How are you so unbelievably strong? I am amazed by you."

She just smiled at me in that wise old soul way she does and asked me what I wanted to drink at Starbucks.

I should start having what she's having, apparently.

You can keep your astronauts and Mount Kilimanjaro climbers. My daughter is my hero.

My Imaginary Conversation With Me As a New Mom

20 years old. 38 weeks pregnant. It's almost adorable that I had no idea what was waiting for me.

Intrepid turns 18 in a few days. I've been getting all nostalgic and remembering my life as a new mom. I decided that, if I had the ability, I would love to sit down and have a coffee with her to tell her a few things. This is how I imagine it would go:

"Hey, New Mom Me! What's happening? It's me, Maven from the fuUUuuuUutUuuUuure!"

"Hey. Could you be a little quieter? The baby's finally sleeping. I've been up all night breastfeeding and watching Law & Order reruns. Did you know I can watch the same episode over and over again and still not know how it ends? That's the magic of sleep deprivation. Anyway, and you are?"

"Didn't you hear me? I'm you! From the fuUUuuuUtuuUUuure!"

"Again with the loud. I will literally snap your neck if you wake this child up. What's with the weird hand gestures, too? Calm down."

"Sorry. Lots of coffee drinking still going on in my time. Don't you want to know why I'm here?"

"To wake up my baby?"

"No. Definitely not. I know what an Olympic sport it is to get that kid to sleep. Don't you love how he'll only calm down if you sing 'Everyday is a Winding Road' by Sheryl Crow to him? What newborn has such strong musical preferences?"

"What? He does what when you when?!

"Oh. You haven't figured that out yet. I hope I didn't alter the entire course of history. Don't worry, Doctor Who will fix it."

"Doctor Who? That old creepy man British show with the trash can aliens? Is that still on?"

"Oh, New Mom Me. You're going to love the future. It's full of sleeping in and evenings out and Doctor Who on a real budget."

"Thanks for coming by just to show off. So why are you here, anyway?"

"Well, I'm glad you asked! I just want to tell y--"

"Oh, dammit. He's up. If it's because of your hand gestures I'm going cut off your arms and make you carry this screaming child in your mouth like a cat."

"Wow. We are really psychotic with no sleep, aren't we?"

"Here, hold this wailing butterball of fury, Future Me. You deserve it."

"... Oh, wow. I... I didn't remember how beautiful and little he was."

"Little? He was 10 pounds and 6 ounces at birth. That's not little, as my newly broken vajayjay can attest to."

"It is compared to 6 foot 2. I have to look up now to give him my patented scary mom stare."

"...Wow.  He's tall. He gets that tall?"

"And handsome. Really handsome. Best of all, he's a great human being. Smart, funny, caring and responsible. We did a good job, New Mom Me."

"Is that what you're here to tell me?"

"Sort of.  See, you and your husband--"

"Husband?!"

"Yeah, he's going to propose in four months."

"Awesome!"

"And you're going to buy your rings at a pawn shop because you can't afford new ones."

"... Slightly less awesome."

"You'll grow to love the backstory of those rings, I promise. But anyway, you'll go on to raise this little guy and his siblings, and--"

"Whoa, whoa. Slow down. I am never having another baby. That's not happening. I can't imagine loving someone as much as I love this one and as much as I love sleep."

"Awww, I remember when we felt that way! But you will. And you'll love those ones just as much. Listen, you're going to go through some really hard shit as a parent. It's going to test you in ways that you never saw coming. It will bring you to your knees."

"Thanks, Captain Killjoy of the Unicorn Slaughter Brigade."

"Sorry, but that's the truth. You think colic is the worst of it? It's not. There are bigger things coming that will push you to your limits."

"It sounds so wonderful. I can't wait."

"See? All you needed was for someone to hold the baby for a minute and you head straight into sarcastic bitch mode again! We totally rock. That's the type of bouncing back you're going to need later on. But here's the most important thing. Are you paying attention?"

"Yep."

"No, you're checking out my rack to see if our boobs sag in the future. Spoiler alert: they do. Invest in good bras. Now eyes up here and listen to what I'm saying."

"Sigh. Ok."

"All this stupid shit you're going to worry about, like what kind of diaper to use and when they should potty train and what preschools they should go to and what their grade 3 math scores are? Those mean nothing. Parenting is about the bigger picture."

"But if I don't schedule nap time just perfectly it will mean--"

"It will mean something to you in the short term and absolutely nothing in the longer term, New Mom Me. Trust me. Parenting is not about the tiny little things everyone seems to obsess over. Every parenting expert and every other parent on the internet (yes, that's becoming a big thing) will try to tell you that if you don't do it the way they're doing it, you're failing. You're screwing up your child for life and you suck at this mom thing. You'll question yourself a lot and you'll waste a ton of energy that way."

"Even though you're telling me this?"

"Yes, because we're a stubborn idiot.  But parenting is not a sprint; it's a marathon. This little guy is turning 18 in a few days. And you know what matters most to him? That we talked every day. That he could come to me with anything and I would listen and support him. That I was there to watch movies on many Friday nights. That we laughed and cried together - mostly laughed. That I continue to show him with all of my being that I love him and his siblings - even if it takes lots of coffee to do it. Love matters. Presence matters. Support matters. That's it. The rest is just garnish."

"That's it?"

"Yeah, that's really it."

"So, you keep saying 'siblings'...."

"I'm not telling you how many."

"Oh, come on! How about you at least tell me if they're all boys, or if I get a daughter in there somewhere?"

"Heh. That's even more of a surprise, believe me."

"Fine. Thanks for visiting, I guess."

"No problem. Glad I could be super smart and invent this time machine out of things I found at the dollar store. Here's our baby back. Take good care of him. Let me tuck you guys in before I head out. You look exhausted."

"Thanks. And if you could put Law & Order on before you leave, that would be great."

"What episode?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Peace out, me. You're going to do just fine."

I Hope I Never Have To Remember My Child

Sometimes I paint things.

I finished this painting on September 1st, 2013.

I remember because it was my birthday, and I made sure my minions family members took care of other things - like fetching me all the coffee - while I touched up the colourful roots (which is the complete opposite of what happens when I dye my hair these days. I am so terribly middle aged. Sigh.)

It's a symbolic family tree. I was trying to be all artsy. Each one of us is represented by a different colour. I immediately began jokingly referring to it as "The Pride Tree" because of how colourful it is. At the time, LGBT issues were far more peripheral for us than they are now.

That's what is known as "cosmic foreshadowing," kids.

Today is the International Transgender Day of Remembrance (TDOR). It's a day to memorialize trans men and women whose lives have been lost due to hate crimes and prejudice. I can't find statistics for Canada right now, but I know that, in the U.S, 1 in 12 trans women are murdered. And if you're a trans woman of colour, that already frightening statistic jumps to 1 in 8.

Then we need to consider physical assault, rape and harassment. We need to figure in the nearly 50% attempted suicide rate, and the abysmal statistics surrounding unemployment, poverty, addiction and homelessness.

Last year, I had no idea this day even existed. In fact, I knew next to nothing about the nuts and bolts of transgender issues, only that I supported individuals in their rights to be, well, individuals. Do your outsides not match your insides? I'm sure that feels awful. Go ahead and change them; I've got your back. Always.

I'm glad I've always felt that way and shared it openly with my kids. When I did so, I figured it would help them become more openminded. But I had no idea it would apply directly to one of them.

This time last year, I didn't know what I know now. I wasn't a mother faced with a lot of scary statistics. I feel like I was handed an enormous responsibility, and I don't always feel equipped to deal with it.

I could choose to be terrified. And admittedly, for a little while, I was terrified. Who wouldn't be, when faced with the prospect of losing your child simply because they're trying to be who they really are?

But I've mostly moved beyond that - at least for now. I'm choosing to be empowered by these stats rather than scared by them. I'm going to do my absolute best to make sure my daughter doesn't become a statistic; that she's surrounded by accepting, caring and educated people who will protect her from those who aren't.

I'm going to instil as much confidence, assertiveness, street smarts (and some self-defence classes!) into that kid as I can before I have to let her go out into the big, scary world.

And then I'll freak out a little. For sure.

Today, on our first TDOR, instead of being afraid, I sat in silence for a few minutes and honoured all the people who came before Gutsy and fought so bravely for their rights and hers.

I thought of all the laws that have been passed and the laws that still need to pass.

I thought about the astounding support we've received, and the ignorance that's still very much alive and waiting in the wings.

I thought about the strength it takes to be yourself in a world that tries its best to make us all conform.

I thought about the many transgender people who've reached out to tell me they wish their parents had been as supportive as we are, and how much of a difference that would have made for them.

I thought about how sad it is that we live in a world in which I'm considered a "good parent" because I accept my child for who she is. Shouldn't that be always be the case? We're only doing what unconditional love tells us we should do. It's not rocket science.

I've thought about those I've spoken with in the trans community who are fed up, suicidal, and feeling unbelievably alone.

And then I thought of her. 

And how she's having a sleepover tonight with her best friend, who is also trans.

And how they're laughing in my basement right now and watching YouTube videos and just being silly, wonderful kids.

And I just want to wrap them up in a little bubble and keep them safe forever.

But I can't. That's why you're reading this post. It's why I hope you'll share it, or another like it, so that people in your life can read, learn, and help make the world a safer place.

I don't ever want to have to remember my child.

An Open Letter to My Daughter on Her 12th (and 1st) Birthday

To my one and only daughter,

The clock shows a few minutes after midnight on November 13^th. It’s officially your birthday. It’s your 12^th, and yet, also kind of your first, isn’t it?

Being your mom who oh-my-god-thinks-she-knows-everything, I have some wisdom to impart. (I keep it in my wrinkles like all the other old people do.) No matter what plans you have, no matter where you think you might be headed, you never know what life is going to hand you.

Let’s take me, for example. I was handed what I thought was a 10 pound, 4 ounce baby boy, and for over eleven years I raised you as such. We had eleven birthdays in which you wore short hair and a lot of blue. We sang to you using a name that doesn’t resonate with you anymore.

Each year your smile seemed to fade a little more. By last year’s family birthday party, you came downstairs just long enough to open gifts and thank everyone, and then disappeared into your room again.

It’s ok. Everybody knew you weren’t happy. We just didn’t know why.

And now we do: You never were that boy. He was who you thought you were supposed to be, but he wasn’t who you really are. He was a role you played but never related to. I can’t imagine having to live like that every day of my life. My heart feels like it’s been stabbed by something stabby whenever I think about what you went through. And believe me, I think about it a lot.

But you know what’s great about you? Other than the fact that you’re related to me, I mean. You’re remarkably introspective and insanely brave. The combination of both those things is a superpower I simply didn’t possess at your age. (Even my great hair superpower only came on in my 30’s; I’m a late bloomer. Don’t judge.) You were able to figure out why you were so sad at such a young age.

And then? Well, then you did something about it. You were able to tell your dad and I a secret so big and so scary that I still don’t know how you managed it. That took the courage of a lion.

Or a yeti.

Or, like, maybe a lion’s and yeti’s love baby.  Yes. If a lion and a yeti had a baby it would probably be very brave - and also very ugly. It would be like a gorilla with a mane. Gross. It would die in two minutes from heat stroke or strangle itself in a bur bush. So the good news is that even if it was just as brave as you are, you still come out on top, genetically speaking. That makes you better than a lion-yeti baby. Let that incredible fact sink in for a minute.

Also, yetis aren’t real.

Also, your mom probably has adult ADD. We can research the symptoms during our homeschooling time next week. I like to provide you with real life learning opportunities.

Where were we? Oh, right. Here’s the wonderful thing, my love. You don’t have to hide anymore; you made sure of that. And this year, we get to celebrate the real you for the first time.

Your dad and I get to celebrate our daughter’s birthday for the very first time.

Your brothers can say, “it’s my sister’s birthday today” for the very first time.

In some ways, it’s your first birthday on your twelfth birthday. You just managed to do the coolest. thing. ever.

And so, tomorrow we are not doing any fancy book learnin’.

I’m taking you out for breakfast. And when you ask for the breakfast that’s so big I know you can’t eat it all, I’m not going to convince you to get the more affordable, reasonably portioned one like I usually do. I’m going to surprise the crap out of you and say “sure thing. Whatever you want.” And you’re going to think I’m up to something, and you’ll be right. That thing is niceness. Even your mom can manage that once a year.

Confession: I bought you something girly in a super glittery pink package. I actually squealed a little when I did, because I never get to buy adorable stuff like that. I’d bet money you’re going to roll your eyes when you see how over-the-top estrogeny it is – and yet secretly love what’s inside.

After you don't finish your entire breakfast and I don't say "I told you so", we’re getting a streak of colour in your hair. You want teal in your bangs, so that’s what’s going to happen. I hope it brings out a touch of femininity that I know you’re looking for. I realize you don’t yet see just how beautiful you are. My job as a mom is to show you that you are the whole magnificent package, and teach you how to own it. I promise you that I will do just that.

I’m buying you a new pair of earrings, and that microphone you’ve been begging for so you can start a new YouTube channel. We want to feed your creativity and encourage your love of tech. (My other job is to show you that you are more than just a pretty face. Man, I have a lot of jobs…)

I’m going to spend the whole day with you – with my daughter. My one and only, totally amazing, always smiling, finally happy daughter.

Those are your gifts, but you’re my gift this year.

So, as I was saying, life doesn’t always go according to plan. But that’s the fun part.

I love you so much. Happy birthday.

My Story of Assault, and Why I Need to Tell it

Image source: Wikipedia Commons

Things I told myself when I contemplated sharing this difficult part of my life:

It's not relevant to your life today. Don't tell your story.

It's not as serious as what other people have been through. Don't tell your story.

Are you sure it wasn't your fault? Don't tell your story.

What makes you think anyone would care? Don't tell your story.

Nobody is going to believe you. Don't tell your story.

People won't look at you the same way. Don't tell your story.

Nearly 24 years later, I'm still afraid to talk about the fact that I was sexually assaulted. And that's why I'm going to talk about it. That's why I'm telling my story. I'm telling it for me and for other victims. I'm telling it for those who are afraid to come forward, and those who did and are burned at the stake of public opinion for it.

I was fourteen. He was nineteen and my first boyfriend. I was making a lot of bad choices at that time, and starting to date someone my gut screamed at me not to date was no exception. He was pushy from the start, trying to get me to do things I didn't want to do. I didn't feel ready for sex yet - with him or anyone else. I just wanted to date someone, fall in love, and, when the time was right, make the choice to lose my virginity.

But I was young, insecure, and loved the compliments and attention that fell in between the moments that raised giant red flags. He was older and lived on his own and had cool friends. I didn't know what healthy relationships were supposed to be like because I had never had one. Maybe this was it.

We had only been dating for a couple of weeks. It was New Year's Eve and my parents were out. I had told him he could come over (even though they had told me he couldn't.) When he did show up, he was drunk. We ordered pizza and watched TV. He had his hands all over me.

"Remember how you said you might want to tonight?" he breathed in my ear.

"I remember," I said. "But I don't think I'm ready."

"Come on. I didn't come over here so we could just eat pizza," he said with a hint of aggression, and began getting a little more forceful with his hands.

"I really don't want to have sex tonight," I said.

"But you said you wanted to."

"I said I might. And I now don't want to."

"Come on. Don't be like that," he said, and pushed me down onto the couch, roughly kissing my neck.

I tried to push him off of me.  I said stop. I said no. He kept going.

I remember weighing the options in my mind:

1. I could fight back harder. It's what my insides were screaming at me to do. But he was bigger, stronger and intoxicated. Our short history had told me he had no respect for boundaries. Would he get mad? Fly into a rage? Put a throw pillow over my face to stop me from screaming? I legitimately feared for my life.

2. I could stop fighting and let him have his way with me. I would very likely get out of the situation alive that way.

I chose survival. And so, through tears and pain, I lost my virginity to the man who took it without my consent. 

When he was done, he asked me if I had enjoyed myself. Something in his eyes told me I should lie. So I wiped my tears and said yes. I even tried to convince myself I had.

When he left, I hugged and kissed him. I then paced around the house with my arms wrapped around myself. I wondered if this was how every girl felt when they lost their virginity. Maybe it was that painful for everyone. Maybe all girls were scared and needed to be forced a little, or it would never happen. I tried to reframe my rape in a positive light. It didn't work.

I broke up with him the next day.

I never thought about going to the police. Part of me felt like it was my fault. I chose to date a guy who was clearly bad news and far too old for me. I chose to ignore the signs prior to that night, which would have sent many girls running in the opposite direction. I chose to have him over when no one was home, knowing what he was like.

Some of the (very few) people I did tearfully confide in didn't believe me, or felt it must have been my fault for many of the reasons I tried to tell myself it was. One even went so far as to call me a slut.

If there was ever a dark tipping point in my life, that night - and the reaction that followed - was it. Within months, I was in a drug and alcohol treatment center, my already addictive personality now completely out of control. I nearly died trying to suppress the pain.

Years later, when I was in my mid-20's, a friend of mine dated the same man. I warned her, but kept my distance. Within months, she had to get a restraining order against him for violence and stalking.

I often wondered if any of her traumatic experiences would have happened if I had gone to the police and tried to press charges. Would he have been put away? Would he have received the help he certainly needs? How many other women had he assaulted over the years? I'll be honest; I try not to think about it too much.

Like so many women (and men), I am a victim of rape. I was a fourteen-year-old girl. It was not my fault. It took many years of therapy to be able to say that and believe it. Still, the little shame trolls sit on my shoulder, reminding me that society never sees victims as blameless.

Why am I sharing this now? Recently, Canadian radio show personality Jian Ghomeshi was fired from his job at the CBC, most likely due to allegations from four women that he physically and/or sexually assaulted them.

The number of women coming forward has now climbed to eight. While most of the alleged victims have remained anonymous, Actress and Royal Canadian Air force captain Lucy DeCoutere has bravely chosen to come forward publicly with her story. Given how difficult it is for me to write this blog post, I can't begin to imagine what it took for her to come forward in such a public case.

I don't know Mr. Ghomeshi outside of listening to him on the radio, nor do I know any of his alleged victims. Is this one giant conspiracy against a man who is arguably Canada's most famous radio personality, or is this a case of someone we thought we knew with a much darker monster inside than most of us could imagine?

If these allegations become formal charges, we can let a court of law decide who's telling the truth. What I find interesting, however, is how quickly people have taken sides in defense of or against Ghomeshi. Two of the most prominent arguments I've seen in defense of him are: "No way. I love his radio show!" and "If these allegations were real, charges would have been pressed already."

So, basically, if you think someone is likeable, they can't be an abuser. And if you were really assaulted, you would have gone to the police.

I dated a likeable guy and he raped me. That rape went unreported. It altered my view of men and changed my relationship to sex. It reshaped my life - and nearly took it. It was most definitely real.

It's my hope that sharing my story will help others to let go of any shame or guilt they might still cling to. The more we share our stories - publicly or privately - the less shame there will be to them, the more educated people will become, and the less society will blame the victims. Because we are victims.

Rape is about taking someone's power away. Today I'm taking it back.

What's in a Name? When You're My Daughter, Everything.

PS: This is not her new name, in case you've never read a history book. Source: Wikipedia Commons

Last week, my daughter got the best piece of mail in the history of ever: her legal name change certificate from the province of Ontario.

Right?! How great is that? She's all officially her new self now, and she couldn't be happier.

I got the news in a text while I was sitting in the clinic waiting for the doctor to check out my sore foot and give me a magical bean or whatever to make it better.  He only gave me stretches and a lecture about wearing inserts in my shoes, but I didn't care at that point. All I could think about was getting home to give my kiddo a near-bone-crushing hug and some serious mom props.

We worked hard to make this happen, doing a lot of research, making phone calls, finding a guarantor and signing in front of a lawyer. Then we waited what seemed like an agonizingly long time but was, in fact, only a few weeks. I checked the mail each day like a kid checking under the Christmas tree, getting that fluttery feeling in my stomach as I opened the mailbox, followed a sting of disappointment when I only found bills and stupid coupons to shitty places (made shittier by the fact that they were stupid coupons and not, in fact, my daughter's name change documents.)

And then, one day, there it was: exactly what we had been waiting for. The official certificate with her official new first and middle names - both undeniably female.

Everyone we told was ecstatic for her. This is a big deal, after all. New names don't happen every day unless you're a rapper.

The questions I had been anticipating didn't come up nearly as often as I thought they would, but come up they did. It's ok. I'm used to questions and I'm cool with answering them as long as they're not full of stupid. These aren't. They're probably the same questions I would have thought of if I were watching someone live the life I'm currently living: Why change her name now? Why not wait? Are you sad about it? Are you really that sure she won't change her mind?

Why now? Why not wait? Because Gutsy's original birth name, as much as I loved it and still hold it close to my heart, was causing her a tremendous amount of pain.

Having spoken to a lot of transgender folk and parents of transgender folk, I've realized that gender dysphoria rears its ugly head in many ways. For some, seeing pictures of themselves before transition is really hard. It reminds them of a time when they were living an inauthentic life; a life of sadness and feeling out of place.

For Gutsy, the name we gave her when she was born was the source of many tears and anxious moments. She would wince seeing that name on medication labels and report cards. She was scared of being called in a busy waiting room, because the masculine name on paper no longer matched her feminine presentation. She excitedly awaited her bank card to come in the mail, only to see her old name on it and tearfully throw it in a pile because she couldn't bear to look at it. (That bank account hasn't been used since.)

Coming to terms with the trauma of your past, no matter what it may be, is a process. I explained this to my daughter, and we've worked through some if it.  Gutsy eventually learned to look at her old name without getting sad or panicky, but we could still see that flash of pain in her eyes.

Look, I'm a chick. I wouldn't want to be called "Ralph Edward Chesthairington" everywhere I go when I'm clearly a lady person and present like a lady person and feel like a lady person on the inside. People would be all "Ralph Edward Chesthairington?" in the clinic waiting room and I would hobble over with my damaged lady foot and they would look confused by my appearance and I would get flustered and I would be reminded that what society legally thinks I am is not who I actually am. That would both blow and suck simultaneously.

I would not want my picture next to the name "Ralph Edward Chesthairington" on my I.D., nor on the medication I need to take every day, nor on the awards and accomplishments I receive in my life, when I don't relate to that name or call myself by it. It would hurt in a way I can sort of imagine but can't fully comprehend. I take for granted that my name is Amanda and I look like an Amanda. My daughter doesn't have the privilege of being born biologically female, immediately identified as such, and named appropriately.

We can't take away all her pain and all the uphill battles she's going to have to face. But we can change her damn name so she smiles when she sees it, and connects with it, and proudly owns it. That, we can do. And so that's what we did.

Simple. Right?

Are you sad about the name change?

Not really. I mean I'll always have a connection with the name I chose for her in the womb. And I say "I" because it I was the one who stole it from my little sister, who said it was her favourite boy name. So I did what any good sister does and insisted we call our baby that the minute we found out she had a peen (the baby, not my sister). My husband protested a little and I ignored him and kept calling my unborn child by that name. And then it became the name. And my sister was a little ticked off at me, but it's ok because she hasn't had kids yet and she can totally have it back now. We've returned it for a new one.

Incidentally, the name Gutsy picked for herself was my sister's top girl name. True and somewhat unfortunate story. Oops.

I went through my grieving time for my son. I was a sad Maven for a little while because I had visions of who he was going to be and what he was going to look like and what kind of life he would have. But I'm now super excited about this girl business. I have a girl child now! And for some reason, the official name change made me even more excited about that fact. It brings home the femininity that is emerging more and more every day inside her. I'm excited to see what she's going to be and what she's going to look like and what kind of life she's going to have.

Given how much happier she is, I think it's going to be a much more positive experience than what was awaiting my son.

I admittedly cried happy tears when the name change came. The goodbye tears were shed a while back. It's all good.

Are you sure she won't change her mind?

I will be an annoying bitch and answer that question with other questions: Do we get married thinking of the possibility of divorce down the road, or do we celebrate the love we have today? Do we buy a house thinking we might lose it in a fire or flood, or do we sign the papers while excitedly discussing the new wall colours and flooring?

We're never sure of anything. Nothing is 100%. Ever. But statistically speaking, my long-term loving marriage is far more likely to crumble than Gutsy is to stop identifying as female. Research strongly supports this.

But more importantly, many conversations with my child have led me to believe that she is very sure of who she is, even at eleven years of age.

And, even more importantly, she steals my fucking shoes right out of my closet. Right out of my closet. What more proof does anyone need?

Our job is to support her where she is today and help her move in the direction she's aiming for, not to impose fear or doubt on her. If that means giving her a new name, that's what we do. Worst-case scenario? We change her name again. And my sister gets two recycled baby names. And Gutsy gives all my fucking shoes back. I don't think any of those things is likely to happen, though.

The name change is done. Next up: gender marker. We might be waiting a little longer for that one.

We've reached another milestone in our journey.

And now that I've brought it up, I'm a little pissed about my missing footwear.

And grateful that my name isn't Ralph Edward Chesthairington. Like seriously. Wow.

Off to go poke around in the kid's closet while she's sleeping. I'm pretty sure I'm going to finally find my sandals - in October.

Daughters, man. Someone should have warned me.

P.S.: As always, every bit of this was written with permission from one amazing kiddo, who really wants the world to understand what it's like to be a transgender child. She is super awesome beyond measure. And needs to grow out of my shoe size.

A Parent's Guide on What to do When Your Child Comes Out

Step 1: Take a deep breath. OMG, right? Big news. Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe you suspected this was coming. But you should still breathe anyway because you need do that to keep being alive. So this step applies no matter what. Get some oxygen into you.

Step 2: Tell your child you love them. That might seem obvious to you, but they just told you something really big and they're probably pretty worried about what's going on in your head right now. Even if you think you're the coolest, hippest, hipster-hat-wearing, beatnik glasses-sporting, ukulele playing, social network-roaming parent out there - so of course you're supportive and how could they think otherwise? - you're still one of the most important people in the world to them and they need to hear "I love you" right now.

Step 3: Behave like you love them. Seriously. Loving them means being supportive. It does not mean trying to fix them, lecture them, use religion to shame or dismiss them, worry aloud about what everyone else will think, hurt them, kick them out of the house, or disown them completely. That's not what you do when you love someone. Don't do it. You'll spend a lifetime regretting it.

Step 4: Believe them. After my child came out, I spent a couple of weeks asking her if she was "sure." Because, like, I wanted to make sure that she was sure, and that I wasn't reframing my idea of her only so she could tell me she was mistaken at a later date. I think that was understandable in some respects; I was after all, trying to wrap my head around something I didn't understand. But it was also really hard on her because she felt I wasn't listening. This might be brand new to you, but your child has been feeling this way for a long time. And yes, gender and sexuality can be pretty fluid for some of us, and how we feel one day may not be how we feel the next. But if your child was sure enough to tell you, they're pretty sure about how they're feeling. So honour them where they're at today. Right now. If things change later, you can both deal with it later. (But there's a pretty good chance things aren't going to change. Just a heads up.)

Step 5: Educate yourself. Even if you think you know everything, you don't. There is some great lesbian, gay, bisexual & transgender (LGBT) literature out there. Read reputable books and websites. Join a local support group. Talk to people in the LGBT community who can offer you some perspective. My child is trans and I have no idea what that feels like. I never will. So I appreciate any time I get to chat with a trans person about their experiences. The more I know, the better I can help.

Step 6: Love your child. Did I mention that one already? Well, too bad. This is important and deserves another mention. Lead with love and everything else will fall into place. I held on to that belief over the first few precarious weeks and it saved me from eating too many stress cookies. Ok I'm lying about that. I ate way too many stress cookies. But I definitely hyperventilated a lot less while I was trying to figure everything out. I knew if I loved her and showed her I love her, we would sort the rest out. So far, so good.

Step 7: Recognize that your child is the expert on your child. The only one who knows what's going on inside your kid is your kid. How they see themselves and who they're attracted to is all inside their brain. You're the grownup, so you probably know more about preparing a budget or driving a car, but you don't know more about your child's sexual orientation or gender identity than they do. My child's job is transitioning. My job is facilitating that transition and going to bat for her when I need to. I follow her lead. Period.

Step 8: Stop caring what everyone else thinks. This one is harder for some of us (and by "some of us" I mean me, the people pleasing junkie.) This isn't about what anyone else thinks. The opinions of family, friends, colleagues and neighbours need to take a backseat when you have a LGBT child. Not everyone is going to understand and not everybody has to. We had a pretty positive experience after our child came out, but we still lost some people. It hurt at first, but the folks we've met since are far kinder and more open-minded than their predecessors. And isn't that the type of person we want in our lives anyway? We upgraded, that's all. Newer friend model. More bells and whistles. Now comes with side airbags and empathy.

Step 9: Every now and then, make sure to look back and see how far you've both come. Maybe you've made some mistakes along the way, but look at where things are now. Your child is likely the bravest person you know for being true to themselves in a world that tries its best to force us to be like everyone else. And you? Well, you've grown too.  In fact, you're one of the strongest people you know - even if you don't always see it. You've held someone's hand through a proverbial hurricane and never let go.  That takes an incredible amount of resilience. You rock.

Step 10: Use what you know to help others. Right now, there's a child getting ready to tell their parents something big. And right after that happens, there are going to be some loved ones who will be as scared and lost as you once felt. That's where you get to come in. Now that you've weathered the initial storm, maybe you can share some perspective - and an umbrella. And if they're not ready to support their child? At least they know where to find you. If one of your child's LGBT friends doesn't have good support at home, offer your home to hang out in as a safe space; a judgment-free, LGBT-friendly spot for kids to just be themselves. We have a sticker on our door that indicates our home is safe. And I have one on my car. Oh, and I have a button on my jacket. I'm pretty much a walking safe space, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Step 11: Did I mention love your child? It's not easy when you don't fit neatly inside the typical boxes society has laid out for us. Some days will be harder than others, even weeks, months, or years later. But if our kids know they always have a soft place to fall, it can make all the difference in the world. Unconditional love is the biggest gift we can give them. And what they will teach us in return is priceless. Our children are incredible when we let them shine.

So let them shine.

That Day This Chubby Mom Broke a Toilet Seat

We need to go back in time. There is no toilet seat to break on these things. Photo credit: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/5/50/Bramah_water_closet.jpg

(This post is a little hard to write. But I'm going to take a deep breath and just do it. At the very least, I will have purged my negative thoughts for a little while. At most, somebody will have a nugget of wisdom to share that will bring about sweeping change in my life (but no pressure or anything.) And somewhere in the middle, I will probably get a hug or two. And bitches like hugs. So here it goes.)

I am a fat person.

And normally I'm pretty okay with being a fat person.

I don't love it, but I don't hate myself or walk around thinking I look terrible. I made the decision a long time ago to rock the shell I have. It encases a powerhouse of awesome, so it needs to be just a little bit bigger than average, that's all.

I have a sluggish thyroid and a hormone condition. Both those things = shitty metabolism. But I still work up a good sweat at the gym and go on walks and eat fairly well and feel pretty good about myself.  This is my body's current set point. It doesn't like to move much from here. Normally, I'm relatively comfortable with that. I have hope it will change, but I'm trying to be patient about the whole thing.

My sister is getting married next weekend and I am in her wedding party with a group of girls who are, like, ten years younger and ten sizes smaller than I am. They're gorgeous and make it look effortless.

I was feeling generally okay with that until I saw the pictures from the bachelorette party. And then I suddenly realized just how much I stand out. I am so much bigger. And now that's all I can see all the time: how big I am.

I'm the fat girl. And, suddenly, I'm not okay with that.

Then, while feeling pretty shitteous about the whole thing (preemptive pun intended), I went over to a friend's house last week and broke her toilet seat.

Yep. Broke. her. toilet. seat.

Snapped it right in half.

I'm nursing a hamstring injury and shifted my weight to the non-injured leg to stand up. I guess it put too much pressure on one side. The final blow to my ego was in the form of a loud snap! and the denial that came flooding in: Please don't be the toilet seat oh my god don't be the toilet seat I will be so embarrassed if it's the toilet seat I can't even look...

But I looked. And it was broken. And I was mortified. Shame poured over me like a good tar and feather. I couldn't just laugh it off like I normally would.

This was about the time I realized I'm too far down the rabbit hole to find these things funny right now.

I don't like it down here. Rabbits are smelly.

For years, I have actively refused to tie my self-worth to my weight. Not that I wouldn't love to be smaller, but I promised myself that dress size would not be what defines how I feel about me. I spent too many years feeling exactly opposite; viewing the numbers on the scale as a global representation of how well I was doing in life.

And now? Once again, I find myself viewing fit moms as more successful than I am because they do everything I do and look good in their jeans at the grocery store. Sigh.

But here's the thing: I'm pretty sure this isn't actually about weight. I mean, it is, but it's more than that. My confidence has been dragged through the dirt this year, and it's finally manifesting in the one place where I have a weak spot: my size. This is a symptom of a greater problem.

Weight is an easy target when you're a woman. The idea that we should be thin is everywhere. It's so much simpler and less frightening to focus on that than to point a finger at my parenting or my near-stalled writing career; two things that are infinitely more important to me than how I look in a bathing suit.

I'm raising a transgender child in a world where transgender people are still very misunderstood, and I'm still trying to figure out how to instill as much confidence in her as I can before I can no longer shield her from the bulk of that misunderstanding. That's the shit that keeps me up at night. 

I'm homeschooling her for the first time in grade 7, which is overwhelming, to say the least.  I never planned to homeschool and I'm not the world's best teacher. We're both learning how to do this. Meanwhile, she has two brothers who also need their mom, so I'm doing my best to give them as much of my time as I can, too.

Oh, and in case you didn't know, I love to write. It feeds my soul like nothing else. But I'm not writing much these days, as my time and energy are more limited than they used to be. When I do have time, I often can't get the words out. My inner critic likes to tell me I'm too uneducated to write (remember how I'm a high school dropout finishing her last credit right now?), and that nobody wants to read what I have to say. He's a bastard and I would very much like to throw a broken toilet seat in his direction. I have a book inside me that needs to come out. Like soon. And I swear if I hit my deathbed without having published it I'm going to be one pissed off ghost. I'll haunt the Starbucks and shit for all eternity. Trust me.

So what I'm really upset about is that I feel like I'm failing at life right now. This all came to a head a few hours after I broke the toilet seat, when I was driving on the highway and spontaneously burst into tears, sobbing my face off all the way home. It started with feeling bad about my fatness and quickly morphed into bigger things:

I don't know if I can do all this.

I don't know if I can figure out this new life plan.

What if I totally suck at it?

What if I'm a terrible mom and the world's least successful writer at the same time?

So yeah, I'm fat. It's not fun. I'm dreading the wedding photos next weekend. And I owe my friend twenty bucks for breaking her house.

But more importantly, I need to climb out of this rabbit hole and figure out that I'm awesome again in other respects, because The Maven is not behaving very mavenly these days. 

I don't want to have to rebrand myself.  That shit's more expensive than toilet seats.

So figuring out how to come back from this starts right now. Right now. 

After coffee.