(Note: all italicized lyrics herein are from Duran Duran’s “Ordinary World.”)

But I won’t cry for yesterday
There’s an ordinary world
Somehow I have to find
And as I try to make my way
To the ordinary world
I will learn to survive

Well, here we are; as of today, I have lived in San Francisco for two full decades. I’ve now called this City home longer than anyplace else I’ve lived in my life, and have been supporting myself in the “adult world” for 24 years in total. Naturally, this milestone urges me to reflect on my journey…particularly, I find myself taking stock of my time here, and what I have to show for it, and musing on “what I’ve learned.”

I’m currently reading the book “When Things Fall Apart” by Pema Chodron, and in it, she writes a lot about impermanence; she asserts that our irrational human desire for a fixed point–to find or create some sort of safe and unchangeable version of ourselves or our lives–is not only the source of a lion’s share of human suffering, but also a thinly-veiled manifestation of the modern human fear/denial of our mortality. The general Buddhist belief is that only by practicing compassion (for ourselves and others) and remaining mindful in the present moment (the only moment which truly exists, from a first-person human perspective) can we begin to alleviate not only our own suffering, but the greater ills of the world.

In contrast, with my current therapist I’ve also been making my way through a mind-blowing volume titled “Transforming The Living Legacy of Trauma: A Workbook for Survivors and Therapists,” by Janina Fisher. In it, the author emphasizes again and again that, for people who experienced ongoing early childhood trauma, the most primal brain functions (which are responsible for survival) frequently hijack its more rational capacities when something in the present reminds the trauma survivor of the abuse they survived in their past. As my therapist is fond of telling me, “what happened to you is in your past, but trauma lives in the present.” The “Great Work” of successful trauma therapy (which can be a lifelong process and–as I’m learning from personal experience–is often nonlinear) is to retrain the brain to A) recognize when things from the past are being triggered in the present, B) assert to oneself that in the present, there is no threat, and C) continue moving through life without getting diverted from experiencing joy and safety…in the present moment. Thus, by relegating one’s past to something that is done with–and by practicing compassion for all of the ways in which one adapted in order to survive their traumatic situation–one is able to fully live their life, appreciating that they survived the threats and can now enjoy their present.

The common threads of self-compassion and being in the present moment have been sending a very clear message. I arrived in this city as 24-year-old seeking a life better than any versions of the one I had been living in The South. I didn’t know what I didn’t know; I was still quite naive (even after 4 years of living on my own in Atlanta), but I knew in the deepest parts of my soul that this place had called me to it, and although I didn’t know what was going to happen or what was going to become of me, I knew that being here was going to show me things and open doors which simply did not exist where I’d come from.

What has happened to it all?
Crazy, some’d say
Where is the life that I recognize?
Gone away

So it was that I, like so many people before me, came to the West Coast and reinvented myself. Within a couple weeks of moving here, I’d been adopted by the fierce, loving, motley freak family of The Stud Bar; soon I was gogo dancing there, then being asked to appear in others’ drag numbers, then creating drag numbers of my own–and with it, my adult name and identity. In 2007 I appeared in the first “legitimate theater” production of my life (that is, being a paid actor at an established theatre company, as opposed to being in a show that was part of being in school or church), and from there, many more subsequent opportunities and experiences led me to realize that I had indeed fulfilled my lifelong ambition (and I daresay, destiny) of becoming a professional performer. Yes, I also had to work a day job in foodservice in order to survive…but I also get paid to do what I love the most, and entertain people.

It took years and years of therapy before I was ever really able to acknowledge that I am a trauma survivor; violence was so normalized in the time and place I grew up in that I thought I had it pretty easy, compared to many of the kids I knew. Yet, to be able to finally look at what happened, say “that was not okay, it was not right, it was not deserved“…and then the even greater challenge of diving deeper into “these are the ways in which my experiences literally shaped/rewired my brain function and my developmental process, and those learned adaptive survival behaviors & reactions still affect how I move through the world”….well. That is a whole other COSMOS of introspection and transformation.

What is happening to me?
Crazy, some’d say
Where is my friend when I need you most?
Gone away

There’s never a good time for a global pandemic, but in so many ways, the Coronapocalypse couldn’t have hit at a worse moment in my life; I was finally beginning to feel not only truly safe and established as an adult, but confident that the momentum I’d achieved and the relationships I’d nurtured would surely continue to grow for the rest of my days, leading to greater and greater quality of life. (“The very first noble truth of the Buddha points out that suffering is inevitable for human beings as long as we believe that things last”, Pema Chodron writes. “that they don’t disintegrate, that they can be counted on to satisfy our hunger for security.”) Then my beloved City shut down, and the vast, colorful communities I’d immersed myself in for so long were scattered to the four winds, cowering in isolation, afraid of one another’s company.

The rational part of my brain could accept that this was merely something that happened; could depersonalize the experience of aloneness, the loss of access to almost everything I loved to do and almost everyone I loved to be with. However, as a trauma survivor, one of my coping mechanisms to get through the first 17-18 years of my life was to tell myself that there was something fundamentally wrong with me; that I was different than everyone else, so that’s why these things were happening to me; that I was broken and didn’t really belong here. Accepting the blame for my circumstances and assuming that everything is, on some level, my own fault is second nature to me. That grown-up me can (in fits and starts) acknowledge this story as fundamentally untrue makes no difference in how it usually manifests in my life. It is old, and it is deeply rooted, and it will not go without a fight.

Quarantine brought out all of my worst demons and gave them an unprecedented freedom to take the driver’s seat. Worse, just when it seemed like the world was turning again and my personal circumstances were starting to feel more stable…well, February happened…and once again, what I thought was safe and reliable and permanent got thrown into dire question.

Well, now pride’s gone out the window
Cross the rooftops
Run away
Left me in the vacuum of my heart

When I made a very public post back in April announcing the betrayal my husband had wrought, I was still deeply reeling in pain, spinning on triggered trauma, and struggling to integrate any of the experiences of my life since March of 2020. It seemed like, once again, there was no inch of real safe space, no person who could truly be trusted, and no choice I could make that wouldn’t end in pain and suffering. That terrible old story borne of my core trauma basically took center stage and said “See? I told you.” What’s worse is that I was so deeply and intensely immersed in the torments of this story that I was blind to the effects it had on my ability to move through the world, and how I was (or wasn’t) showing up in life. Essentially, I’d regressed to my worst self–a hostilely guarded 15-year-old who hated the world and hated himself, who had been convinced by his life thusfar that no person in the world was sincerely kind or trustworthy, even as he desperately hungered for not only companionship, but a genuine experience of feeling seen, and loved for who and what he was.

(“A life after trauma has to include some sense of pride, respect, or just awe that we have survived”, Janina Fisher writes. “We might have to thank those parts of us that contributed to our survival, even if how they (or we) survived is not pretty. The sense that we have been through a dark time but now have made it out of the darkness is important for recovery.”)

I am not proud of a lot of my behavior in the first half of this year; I know I burned bridges, and I lost my post-pandemic job because I was so emotionally disregulated. Nevertheless, I’ve been able to use the therapeutic and spiritual tools I’ve attained to accept that the past happened; I cannot change it…that much of my behavior was largely due to being overridden by a resurgence of old and entrenched responses to a world that (in the moment) seemed to dole out nothing but undeserved painful experiences, and showed no signs of a more hopeful or stable future…to subsequently forgive myself, and show compassion for the humanness of my experience…and then, reaffirm for myself who and what I am, and what the life is that I’ve built for myself since first leaving “home” for good at age 20.

The world is still opening up again, in many ways; but I’ve already had a wealth of performance opportunities, with more on the way. The social environments of the world have been falteringly reestablished, and communities have tentatively reemerged. I get to see people again. I get to go dancing. I get to be alone in a crowd again, if I want to.

Most importantly, however: with time, distance, and copious psychological and existential perspective-seeking, I came to the decision that Andrew making one mistake–albeit a grandiose and infathomable one–could, would, and did not undo the prior 8 years of relationship, which was built on a firm foundation. We are in couples’ therapy, he is making financial amends, and I continue to attempt the often very challenging practice of living in the present moment, and trying not to let my toxic old stories run rampant. I did not rush into marriage blindly, and I am trusting myself enough to believe–just as I trusted 20 years ago when I packed up my life and came to the opposite side of the country–that I have made the right choice.

The past cannot be changed, and the future cannot be known with any certainty, and nothing lasts or lives forever, and impermanence is the only reliable constant. In 20 years here, I’ve already lived countless lives. In the COVID times, I was indisputably not living my best life. But the blessing of the present is that, every day, I can decide again who and what I want to be…and I choose to believe in a future that is better than my recent past. Sifting through the memories of two decades here, I recall countless faces, places, and experiences…I see the ways in which I have been loved, and seen, and appreciated. I know that I have indelibly woven myself into the rich tapestry of San Francisco history; that I have entertained, that I have touched (and changed) lives. The world now might not look or feel like the world of January 2020…but change is inevitable.

In fact, it’s the most ordinary thing.

Papers in the roadside
Tell of suffering and greed
Fear today, forgot tomorrow
Ooh, here besides the news
Of holy war and holy need
Ours is just a little sorrowed talk
And I don’t cry for yesterday
There’s an ordinary world
Somehow I have to find
And as I try to make my way
To the ordinary world
I will learn to survive
Everyone
Is my world
(I will learn to survive)
Anyone
Is my world
(I will learn to survive)
Anyone
Is my world

Here I stand, on Strawberry Hill in Golden Gate Park. This was the rope with which I was handfasted here, six years ago today–entering into the legal bonds and contract of marriage. At the time, it seemed to be the happiest day of my life.

Now, this rope feels like a noose around my neck, and I’ve been unable to breathe for nearly two months; it turns out that I’ve slowly been strangling this entire year, but I just didn’t know it (for certain) until February 7th. Now I’m just twisting in the breeze. I’m dead, and my husband killed me.

I don’t know how I can keep on with this charade. My trust has been shattered to its core, and I simply do not know how to heal. I’m trapped in a marriage and an apartment with yet another man who has traumatized me so badly that he may as well be my abusive father. I cannot look at him without feeling pain and betrayal. I cannot stand for him to touch me. And increasingly, I’m finding myself unable to be anywhere with him; to smile and play the role of a happy couple when I know it’s a lie.

Our agreements in relationship make it nearly impossible to commit sexual or even emotional infidelity; even so, in a Facebook post (which, it was pointed out to me this week, reads much less like an apology than a weak, half-hearted acknowledgement of guilt), Andrew states that “being the creature I am, I had to seek out those boundaries and test their strength.”

Well. That creature fucked around. He found out.

At this point, what’s in my heart is that we are married in title and contract only. My love for him is gone, and I don’t really see it coming back. Certainly not the way it was. He spent the first quarter of this year (and probably the final month of the last) chipping away at our foundation, and the House of Satyricon-Darling has crumbled into the ocean, washed away in the salt of a million trillion tears. Realities of San Francisco real estate being what they are, I currently have no choice but to keep living with him. But that just….is what it is.

If you’re wondering what he actually did, I’m tired of treating it like privileged information: we received an assistance check from the State of California to pay a portion of the massive back rent we accrued during COVID unemployment; it was for over $24K. Behind my back, Andrew spent over $14,000 of that money in 2-3 months–and lied to my face when I got suspicious and asked him if he was doing so. What he spent it on is really of little consequence; it was squandered, but more importantly, IT WAS STOLEN. The money was our landlord’s, not his, and his theft of it threatened my ability to continue residing in the apartment I’ve held onto tooth and nail for over 16 years–my only hope of staying in San Francisco, due to rent control–the place which he’d convinced me was our home.

He showed no regard for his own security, much less mine, nor did he ever stop to consider the consequences of his incredibly stupid and selfish actions. He showed surprise when I became so intensely trauma-triggered that I started locking the bedroom door when I was away from home (as I had to do when I was still trapped in a lease with my prior psychotic/abusive roommate (who, it so happens, was my prior longest non-biological male attachment)). The real hurt was when I realized that, looking back, this is very much in character for him.

In fact, the biggest red flag should’ve been our wedding day. I’m an adult who’s been living with (non-diagnosed/untreated) ADHD since I was a teenager; I’m well aware at this point in middle age that my life/creative process consists of contemplating an action for a very long time, procrastinating on actually taking any action, but finally rushing through to completion at the 11th hour; having already long considered what I planned on doing, those results–however quickly produced and last minute they may be–are almost always passable and, quite often, brilliant.

Such it was with my marriage vows; I finally jotted them down in my notebook the morning of our wedding day, sitting at the kitchen table and drinking my coffee. I wrote them well; I wrote them with intention, and with a great deal of forethought.

Andrew, on the other hand, wrote nothing down, and seemed to have planned not at all. His vows were lamely stammered out in an incredibly vague, half-assed way. They were barely vows at all; they merely referred to continuing what he was doing, basically.

Weak. Barely trying.

That’s basically how Andrew moves through life. He’s used to bullshitting his way to success. Well, it turns out that a killer smile, a big dick, and a con man’s charm are not enough to sustain a long-term relationship. So I find myself the victim of just another of his long grifts.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everyone who believed in us; sorry for everyone who was there with us that day, buying into a lie. I’m sorry for one more tremendous failure in a long life of grandiose mistakes.

I’m sorry I lied to myself. Many of those closest to me who attended the wedding thought I was not the marrying type; indeed, I am not. I should’ve known better than to get caught up in a silly romantic fantasy/delusion. I’m not capable of long-term love–certainly not of sustaining a healthy lifelong relationship with a romantic partner.

I’m broken, and I’m deeply, irrevocably traumatized, and I’m incapable of any lasting happiness. Everyone dies, leaves, or betrays me, given a long enough timeline. I’m merely cursed to keep surviving through it all.

I’ve realized lately that I’ve fooled myself into thinking myself strong, for a very long time. I think that many people see me from the outside and think I’m very strong. I’m not. There’s a difference between true strength and merely living through every countless sling, arrow, knife, and barb–every loss and tragedy and heartache and unfair, undeserved torment–and putting on a false face the next morning so I can continue pretending anything is ok.

I’ve been saying it for over a year, but I’ll say it again: I’m not ok. Things are not ok.

Things are not going to be ok.

9 years of relationship. 6 years of marriage.

One very, very dark and uncertain future.

Selfies. Can we talk about selfies for a minute?
I finally caved and created an Instagram account last year, a month or so into my pandemic/unemployment boredom/mental health crisis. I don’t consider myself a very talented photographer, but I like to document my life and what I see, because I know that I tend to notice things that many other people don’t. That having been said, after joining Insta I quickly recognized that many people (who are, by social media standards and metrics, quite popular) mostly populate their feed with selfies.
Now, I see nothing at all wrong with this; everyone has a right to glorify their beautiful bodies. However, I’ve come to realize that there are two main reasons why I personally have rarely posted any photos of myself: 1) I think I really suck at taking good selfies and 2) Nearly a year into total COVID shutdown, I have never felt less attractive or physically fit in my entire adult life.
I’ve struggled with body dysmorphia my entire life. I was a fat kid; I eventually got a growth spurt (thanks, late-blooming puberty) and became gangly and awkward; I was happily a rail-thin raver in the 90s/00s and then eventually, I decided to get on the gym/bodybuilding/steroid train, and at 26 years of age, I finally sort of grew into what I decided my adult form was. It was fun. I got a lot of attention. Some people decided to hate me because to them I was “one of those gym/circuit queens.” And that is fine. I’m used to being hated. If you grew up queer as a three dollar bill in Alabama in the 80s, you either got killed or learned how to survive a whole lot of people hating you. Anyway. Point is, whether I chose to lift weights just to look good or to become more fit in general, I learned to love the way that exercise made me feel. Present, *in* my body. Strong. Focused. Disciplined.
Not having gyms really sucks. Not having a yoga studio to go to–where I can have a practice that’s like going to church–really, really sucks. Not being able to go to Ecstatic Dance at The Church Of 8 Wheels and fling myself around, barefoot, covered in sweat, and stone-cold sober (save for the actual brain-chemistry-induced high of the experience)…FUCKING SUCKS. You get the idea? It’s been nearly a year since I’ve been able to experience any of the physical activity that makes my body feel like anything other than a walking bag of garbage. I do not FEEL good in my skin.
I feel ugly. I feel simultaneously puffy and deflated.
I feel inhuman.
This pandemic has not just robbed me of human connection; it has robbed me of every physical practice that ever made me feel like I actually am a human.
I didn’t start writing this at 5 something AM on a Sunday because I wanted attention or reassurance that I’m still [whatever affirmational adjectives you prefer in regards to physical appearance]. I’m REALLY not asking for “life hacks” about how to create a home practice for physical fitness in any form, and I damn well better not hear a single word from a single person about anything physical-fitness-related that involves spending a single penny, when I’m getting about $142 a week to live on from the government and I haven’t been able to pay rent in full since last March. I want people to understand that presently, in my reality, physical fitness basically looks like a luxury item to me…something for the financially privileged, which is a category I have summarily been excluded from for pretty much my entire life.
I realize that there’s a lot of white whine in these words; I can say that I’m grateful for still having a roof over my head and food every day and at least one human being in my life who is legally contracted to accept some degree of my company and energy on a regular basis, regardless of the inherent risk of death (or worse, crucifixion via social media) that all human contact now apparently carries. But I am also a human being, and I am suffering, and I am entitled to express my displeasure at THIS FUCKING INSANITY THAT IS LIFE RIGHT NOW.
I want my old life back.
I want my body back.
I want to be in public.
With people.
People who aren’t treating one another like they’re fucking radioactive.
I really, really don’t know how much longer I can keep putting on a brave face and pretending like everything is just peachy keen and it’s only gonna be a little while longer before FUCKING ANYTHING NORMAL is allowed or legal or socially acceptable again.
I am losing my mind. I am losing myself.
I’m scared.
I’m lonely.
I know I’m not a perfect person and I know I haven’t always been the best I could be, in relations with other people. But goddammit, I’ve spent over a decade trying really hard to work on myself internally and be a kinder, more compassionate person and frankly, right now it feels like a wasted effort because if I can’t dance in a crowd of 2,000 bodies, or scream my head off in an arena when one of my favorite pop idols takes the stage, or–for that matter–stand in a spotlight onstage myself at a sold-out show and accept the applause from an audience that thinks something I took part in was worth clapping for…
Then why the fuck am I even here?
I don’t even know what the point of this ramble was, any more. I think I wanted to say something that maybe people would empathize with, but mostly I just feel like a hopeless narcissist, boo-hooing about trifles when there’s real suffering out there in the world.
You know what? Fuck you if that’s true. I pay for a (badly designed/maintained and mostly neglected) website; I drank the social media Kool-Aid like everybody else….I have my tiny patch of the internet’s ideosphere to stake a claim on, and I’m damn well gonna use it to say that
I FUCKING HATE REALITY RIGHT NOW AND I WANT THIS ALL TO BE OVER.
So yeah, maybe someone out there can relate. Maybe not. Whatever. Here’s a photo of my 43-year-old meatsack, in case you don’t like to read.
Happy January 17th.

Earlier this month, the drag and performance community of SF was shocked to hear of the sudden passing of Matthew Simmons, otherwise known as Peggy L’Eggs.

It’s taken me weeks to think of anything I could say publicly in response to this news; as the countless Facebook posts scrolled by–all of the photos and memories and eulogies–it felt impossible for me to think of anything I could say or add that wasn’t redundant or trite. Now, on the eve of his/her (online) memorial, I have realized something important that Peggy taught me, which I would like to share.

Shortly after moving to San Francisco in the summer of 2002, I had already been getting frequent gigs as a gogo dancer: mostly at The Stud Bar, where I had also begun to discover the fiercely beating heart of The City’s punk-aesthetic/performance-art skewed drag scene, as epitomized by the legendary Trannyshack. It was within this framework that I soon began dancing for the all-drag-queen rock band Pepperspray, in which Peggy played keyboard and sang.

As a barely-25-year-old who was still in many ways very naive, wide-eyed, and inexperienced, what first struck me about Peggy was their firm grounding in the sort of spirituality that speaks to me; I would say that s/he recognized me as a kindred spirit in that regard, and feeling seen in such a way meant a lot to me as someone who moved here to find as many kindred spirits (in as many different ways) as I could. What I was stricken by today as I was reflecting, however, was a simple sort of grace which Matthew/Peggy modeled to me…something which I now realize has made an indelible impact on my life.

As someone who was often severely bullied from my childhood and teenage years well into early adulthood, it took me a very long time to learn to feel any degree of deep trust with most people. Within months of moving from my childhood home in Alabama to Atlanta, Georgia (my home before SF), I had quickly been taught of the concept of “shade” as it relates to gay culture; being cut down, teased, or otherwise poked fun of was shown as a standard component of social interactions between gays, and I had to learn fast how to keep up and snap back when I was the recipient of shade–this was, for me, a major rite of passage into my adult queer identity.

There are few places in which the concept of shade is more finely honed or commonly practiced than in drag culture; in our modern age or RuPaul reality competitions, it’s launched countless catchphrases into common parlance. And as I began to become more firmly ensconced in drag culture, some Darwinian part of me was constantly observing the pecking order created by the dynamics of shade. Specifically, I noticed that, in most pockets of drag culture, there are certain people for whom being the butt of the joke somehow becomes an innate part of their role within said culture.

Perhaps because of my own history of being bullied, I recognized Peggy L’Eggs as one of these “shade scapegoats” rather quickly; however, what struck me was her seemingly endless capacity to accept the brunt of what may seem to the casual observer as mockery, yet s/he never appeared to personalize this or take any offense. In fact, I’d swear I saw some sort of deep compassion and amusement–perhaps even a pleasure–twinkling in those huge, expressive eyes of hers when shade was thrown her way.

It’s like…she didn’t mind being the butt of any joke, because she was always IN ON the joke.

I now realize that witnessing this practice of grace from Peggy has made so much difference in my life. I have always felt seen and appreciated by my drag/stage family here in San Francisco…and I have always felt like I’m in on the joke. That has made it easier for me to extend trust and love to all people more readily.

To put it in the very wise words of a long-time Radical Faerie friend of mine, Storm Arcana (who said this to me sometime in the late 1990s): Even when it’s disguised as Shade, it’s still Love.

No one I have ever met exemplified that better than Peggy L’Eggs.

Thank you, “Peggs.” I will truly miss the light you always carried inside you, no matter how fierce the shade.

Tonight is the 10th anniversary of my mother’s death. I can hardly believe I’ve gone this long without her.

My relationship to death has always felt strange to me. I accept death as a reality–as being written into the contract of life–but even though it’s already touched me (numerous times over) about as closely as it can without my own life ending, I’ve always had a sense that it’s a thing I mostly only know how to process intellectually, and not emotionally. I can accept that people die; I’ve accepted that people I love have died. I’m just not sure that I have ever really, viscerally and fully experienced the way that death and loss make me feel. It’s taken me close to a solid 10 years of therapy to realize that my default response to any trauma is disassociation, and who knows how much more work needs to be done before I might actually be able to change that default response. Continue reading What Is Lost →

One of my absolute favorite authors is Neil Gaiman. I’ve been happy to immerse Andrew into the multitude of worlds Gaiman has created via his writings, and most recently, Andrew completed Gaiman’s novel Anansi Boys. When I was telling Andrew why I thought he should prioritize reading it, I said “there are important, true things he says in this novel. Things more important and profound than in American Gods, possibly.”

(Funny enough, when he pointed out that the blue-silver spider embossed on the hardcover has only seven legs, I had no recollection of anything within the story which might indicate that this was deliberate; however, I felt a nagging insistence that there was some reasonable explanation.)

When Andrew was finished with the novel, I began to realize that it had not been since its initial publication in 2005 that I myself had read the book. I still had strong impressions buried in my subconscious that told me there were vital truths among its pages, nonetheless. Continue reading Of Matters Filial and Matrimonial →