One Track Conversation

Posted on by Realistic Autistic

You know, I describe myself as fundamentally honest. I don’t lie very often. It takes too much energy and mental bandwidth. I’ve known that about myself for a while. It’s not necessarily a positive thing. We lie all the time. Conceal our struggles from each other and even ourselves. (“Hi, how are you?” “Oh I’m fine.”)

But there’s more to my honesty than that. I figured out recently, I often lack the ability to subdivide my experience. To say and act things I don’t mean. I can choose to say what I’m thinking or not, but. That’s as far as it goes.  I have a one-track mind in conversations.

I learned, not that long ago, that most people have a very different, more expansive set of options. Here’s a example.

From the excellent webcomic DMFA, at missmab.com. It is, hands down, my absolute favorite storytelling in comic form.

Chicki here has six different options. Six! Most days I have one. Maybe 2 if it’s a good day. No wonder I’m quiet so much.

I’ve been talking with a friend recently about sex and roleplay in sex, and like… he’s into people being mean to him.  Only in fun, and consensually, as is healthy,  but. I thought about it and I actually have a mental block to saying belittling things or acting like I mean them.

I rarely insult people or make fun of them in large part because I’ll mean it if I say it, and the world is usually better if you keep unkind thoughts like that to yourself.  People can absolutely act dumb and mean and frustratingly, but everyone is fighting their demons and you really never know what someone is going through when they cut you off in traffic or say something kinda rude.

The worst part of all this is not the limitation, but that some days, like once a month, I can get like 3 options and the ability to select one or spin one to a better version if I judge it would help the situation.

But not usually. And I still remember what it was like and how positively people responded. How good it felt to competently manage my side of a conversation.  Just think how much easier I’d get along with people if I could do that all the time!

But no; once a month. A glimpse at what I’ve wanted for decades, but can’t have most times. Disability is so fucking frustrating.

LGBTQIA: The Results of a Church Vote

Posted on by Realistic Autistic

So my church voted yesterday on whether to adopt a fully welcoming stance regarding LGBTQIA people. It was all a bit complicated, but basically they presented a document to the congregation and asked if they wanted to have it be church policy. The document isn’t precisely pro-LGBTQIA so much as it is pro-all kinds of people, regardless of their sexuality and gender identity. It’s a document I view as being made in love, with an ear to those of us marginalized by the Synod. It is also idealistic, for which I love it.

I did not get to vote on this document, because I was not a church member. That was partially my own fault- I haven’t transferred my church membership from like… 3 states ago. Because I couldn’t be made to care. What matters to me is where I spend my time, not whether I’ve jumped through some hoops.

So they voted, and I stood on the margins where I often find myself. And honestly, I stood there without really knowing what I wanted. Like, I knew what was going to be best for me- I’m queer, and I belong in the church. Adopting the document is, I firmly believe, the most Christ-like path. But I also knew full well several people were planning to leave if it was adopted. Including someone I worked closely with. And he’s taking his family with him.

So I sat there on the margins and I worried. And I wondered. I’m one of the most visible LGBTQIA people in the church. Am I worth it? Is it really worth losing those people over something like me?

I’ve had a really, really mixed experience in life, re: my worthiness as a person. It’s been mostly blanket rejection and pain, with a small slice of humanity that thinks I’m spectacular. And like… I think you’re supposed to go find and be with the people that think you’re great, but like… I never really knew how to do that. And there was usually just a couple at a time, not a whole group.

…This church, it’s… a lot of them. I’m sure some of it is my parents, who are good people in their own right, and joined the church a couple years before I did. But not all. I’ve been visible enough, I’ve served the church, and I’ve been open and honest about my struggles. And somehow, these people care. Somehow, they come up to me and say so. It… it boggles my mind. It probably shouldn’t, but it does.

The results have come in. The church voted, and 60% or more said they wanted to adopt the document. To turn their backs on the Synod and their mandates to reject me and others like me.

I should be happy. I should be jubilant, knowing this one church, at least, chose God’s love. But all I can think about is the person that’s said he’ll leave. And so I grieve.

I shouldn’t. He made his choice. I have no control over it, only what I choose to do with what he chooses.

And in the end, it’s not really me the church was voting about. It’s the other two people that spoke with me at the panel a month ago, that grew up in the church. It’s their family, their friends, all the LGBTQIA people that are spread across the myriad of connections of every voting member. It’s the convictions they hold dear, the will to love as Christ did. Even if it costs them. They could get thrown out of the denomination for this decision. People have said they’ll leave.

It’s what we’re called to do, as Christians- to choose to welcome and love the outcast, the prisoner, the impoverished, and the exile. I’m just so unaccustomed to people actually living their faith when push comes to shove, that it shocks me. And of course my own self-worth issues are coming through.

Tomorrow I have to face a world not of my making, and not of my deciding. But I guess I get to do so knowing my church is very, very serious about their belief that I belong there. I can’t seem to untangle the mess of my emotions, but I’m grateful.

In the Mirror

Posted on by Realistic Autistic

I looked at myself in the mirror today at work. And I saw something new. I saw a boy.

I was wasting time in the bathroom. They’d sent us home early, and I didn’t want to lose all that money. I could linger in the bathroom for a few minutes and be justified as I washed the dust and dirt off my arms. By and large, I don’t pull stunts like this… but it was like this every day this week. We were supposed to be working full time hours, but the company could get away with only giving us 4 hours in a day. So they did. Every single day for two weeks.

I was tired of it, so I was protesting in a very small way. 5 extra minutes in the bathroom, when I’d normally take only the needed amount. A pitiful defiance, really- the wasted time wouldn’t even buy a cup of decent coffee. But I stared into the mirror.

My face, masked as always at work during the Pandemic. Barely-visible, easily-dismissed eyes behind large glasses perched atop the face-swallowing mask. A blue mask, of course. Middling blue today. My hair, cut very short and near-freshly dyed: sapphire blue, fading a bit at the very front as some of my natural golden shine tried to re-assert itself. The result: a more seafoam blue at my forehead than the true sapphire I prefer.

I looked past my face, to my torso. My chest, with the breasts my genetics determined I’d grow. Not so large as to be intrusive and cause back problems. Large enough to not be missed. Broad, manly shoulders- a gift from my father’s side of the family. Most of me is built on a larger scale. Shoulders and hips to start, but legs too. I’ve been overweight most of my life, but because of how big I am, I carry it well.

I returned my own gaze calmly. I’ve been known to unsettle people simply by looking at them. Nobody’s ever told me why. I assume it’s the intensity of the expression. It comes in handy sometimes.

My clothes were work standard. A work t-shirt, grey today to match my mood in the morning. Brownish-grey cargo shorts. Underneath, a plain white sports bra (over a decade old- don’t fix what isn’t broke), and plain white underwear. By and large I don’t give a crap about undergarments. Other people do, and that’s fine. It’s just not my thing.

Bemused, I pressed down on my chest. With my breasts out of the equation, I looked even more like a boy. Inexplicably standing in the women’s restroom.

I don’t particularly identify as male. There’s nothing affirming about being told I’m “manly.” “Capable,” yes. “Strong” or “authoritative” perhaps. But masculinity and the toxicity that so often goes with it is really of no interest to me. I don’t love hunting or fishing or shooting guns or explosions. Or violence.

And really, masculinity shouldn’t be defined by those things… and perhaps it no longer is, as the times change. But it’s how I see it I guess. And gender is, after all, a psychological construct.

I’ve experienced moments of joy when referred to as “sir” or “young man” (by a half-blind older man as I held the door for him). The easy answer would be to assume that’s because I’m a trans man in denial. And that could still be it… but I don’t think so. The answer is a bit more complicated.

I think, thanks to the Internet, I’ve come to see “male” as the default human. When I was growing up, people assumed you were a guy in virtual spaces unless you specified otherwise, or your voice gave you away. Since I stayed away from voice channels, I was merely annoyed by the joke “there are no girls on the Internet.”

In time, though, rather than loudly proclaiming my identity as a vagina-haver, I simply let people think I was male. And thus, rather than bringing gender baggage into the equation, they were more likely to treat me like an equal and a fellow human. And so that was my default.

Real life doesn’t work that way. People of my generation and older look at a person and automatically assign them “male” or “female” based on presentation and physical features. Sex and gender are usually assumed to be one and the same. They are not, obviously.

But I think that mid-point is what I’ve been unconsciously aiming for. T-shirt and jeans or shorts are more “masculine” clothes, but they’re also what’s comfortable for me. I don’t experience dysphoria around my chest. I’d get rid of my breasts for being mildly annoying, but they’re attractive to more than half the world, plus the surgery is expensive. So why bother?

It was a strange, but valuable, experience. I understand a bit better why I identify as non-binary.

Limitations

Posted on by Realistic Autistic

I’ve been thinking about the nature of our interactions with each other.

You see, as we meet and learn about people, we determine for ourselves what kind of person they are. We take what we know of the world and people in general, and apply it to what we see of a person’s actions and words. We develop a story for ourselves about that person.

That story is inevitably wrong. Sometimes a little, sometimes a lot. Our perceptions and biases warp our judgments. And it’s not possible to entirely understand a person. People are always changing, and act differently in different circumstances based on their own perceptions and history.

That impossibility hasn’t stopped me from trying to fully understand people, but as I’ve aged I’ve come to see I can never truly do it. Like fundamental truths of the universe and life itself, it’s complicated beyond my ability to comprehend.

I know that. And the temptation, in knowing that, is to stop trying. But I can’t. I won’t. Truth is my highest ideal. And in the seeking of truth, I get closer to it, understanding more and more.

Today I feel like I’ve reached a milestone. I realized this morning, based on how people have been dealing with the new supervisors and old ones, that the stories we tell ourselves about us and about others fundamentally limits their potential.

The way we treat people, based on those stories, can limit a person. If, for example, you have supervisor that acts like a bully, a petty human being, and a general pain in the ass, you may come to see him as merely those things.

In truth, he does those things… but not all the time. He is a different person when he’s in a good mood, perhaps a different person to his equals and superiors, and probably a different person at home.

It may be pretty reasonable to expect him to always be a misery to work under… but in doing so you limit his ability to change or be any different.

This was more obvious to me in the treatment of the new supervisors. They seem to be trying to treat us like people with opinions that matter instead of inmates to be herded, which I mightily appreciated. But not everyone seems willing to give them that chance to do better.

Which limits their ability to do better. Enough limitations, and their attempts and intentions won’t matter, and the cycle will repeat itself. I really don’t want that.

It broke my heart, this morning, thinking about how much we limit those around us with our expectations and our judgments. How much we limit ourselves…

In 20 some days I’m going to New Mexico to meet Koopz and Más. Over time, I’ve come to know them. Or at least who they portray themselves to be online. I have, in essence, built stories about who they are. How they act. Why they do what they do. What they want out of life, and what they believe.

Soon I will come face to face with them, and they will not be exactly what I expect. I hope to love them anyway. As much or more than I do now. I can only hope they’ll be able to do the same.

One of the strengths of growing up partially oblivious to the expectations of those around you, is that they don’t limit who you might be. As a result I suspect I’m far odder than I would have been otherwise. But also far more interesting in my opinion.

I am still discovering things about myself, especially now that I’m not held down in shackles of depression. I think I would like to be the sort of person that expands, rather than limits, who and what a person could be.

Reflection on a captured moment in time

Posted on by Realistic Autistic

I’m sitting outside my house eating breakfast in early fall sunshine, emotionally exhausted on my Friday. But enjoying a Switchfoot album a friend (Sancho) finally gently pestered me into listening to.

I’m sad and crushed because my regular work partner (Cody) moved on without me and didn’t want to stay friends outside work. And a really promising romantic interest (Más) moved on without me.

I’m in a dead end job with barely any energy for trying to get a better one. And it costs me so much energy to deal with the job that I haven’t been able to do as much with house upkeep as I’d like.

But. Another friend (Kristophe) just bought me Baldur’s Gate 3, I’d been wanting to play, and couldn’t afford it. He bought it pretty much just because he wanted to. Blindsided me. It’s downloading and will be waiting for me when I get home.

I’ve kept the email notification alongside the one from earlier this year when someone bought me Diablo 4. Because I kind of can’t believe someone would do that.

And I’m reading a good book series a friend (Prety) recommended and talking to him about it. And One Piece, a manga, same deal with Koopz.

My DMs on Discord have never been so busy. My emotions are a confusing mess of sadness, despair, joy, gratitude, and confusion.

Once upon a time I did 1-2 emotions at a time, and they were always all good or all bad. Mostly all bad. Then my life crashed, my toxic relationship ended, I unpoisoned my brain, and…

Is this what it’s like to have friends?

Fear (from October 2022)

Posted on by Realistic Autistic

(Note from July 2023: the relationship that provoked this post ended with them withdrawing after a few months. I took things from the experience, grieved, and moved on. I’m declassifying this now because it no longer hurts me enough to fear posting it.)

I never noticed how much of my life was ruled by fear until recently. How much of a coward I can be. Looking back over my life, fear has always warred with love. And, usually, won.

It makes sense, you know. I’ve generally considered myself brave, but how can you be brave unless there’s something to be afraid of? Something to strive against. Something to be brave despite?

I’ve spent the last year of my life in circumstances that, honestly, are miserable. But they do pay the bills. For now. And now, on the tail end of it, I’ve recovered enough from the tragedy of my failed marriage to really, deeply care about somebody else. To feel joy in their presence, enjoy their quirks and their passion and really see the beautiful parts of their personality. To see, through their eyes, the beauty of the world around me.

Nothing will come of it, I’m sure. There are a lot of factors against anything serious coming of it. But it’s so beautiful and the feelings are so good that the idea of losing them apparently shook my unconscious so badly I started resorting to unhealthy behavior in an effort to prolong it… frankly, in circumstances that weren’t really even threatening to the relationship.

I feel ashamed. And small. And so, so weak.

My therapist would say, with a supportive and encouraging smile, “Well, it looks like you’re still human. And that’s okay.” And she might also point out, after so long being miserable, it makes sense to be desperate to keep that kind of joy close.

But I’ve always wanted to be better than human. To not fall prey, over and over, to the same stupid mistakes. To be done with it eventually, and just be able to live unhindered. It’s why I’ve worked so hard on self-improvement. It’s why I try so hard to be kind to others. I want to break limits.

It’s an impossible dream, of course. Until, perhaps, God comes again, I’m stuck being human and having to forgive myself and making mistakes and having to be kind to myself as well as others.

But I have to try.

Straw Armor

Posted on by Realistic Autistic

So yesterday I went off to face a personal demon I’ve carried for years. I’ve had a rocky relationship with my only brother and his wife for years. The reasons were complicated, and not entirely anyone’s fault. I’ve been a lot harder to deal with in the past, because of all the trauma and pain.

It’s funny, because I’m not actually that different a person. I’m just a different experience now that I’m not depressed.

So I strapped a glass straw across my chest. Over my heart, in fact. In its cloth carrying case, tucked under my bra so it wouldn’t move. Like armor. Something to shield and save me, remind me that even if my family dislikes and wishes me away, there are still other people that care and matter.

The sheer absurdity of strapping a breakable glass item on, like it was armor, had me laughing pretty hard as I drove out to face my fate.

Edit a few months in the future: the family event actually went way better than I expected. All is not fixed. But some positive steps were taken.

Culture (Mis)match

Posted on by Realistic Autistic

Mismatch

A lovely older couple from my church invited me, my parents, and a couple other, older church folks, to brunch. They were unfailingly polite and kind, making sure there would be plenty to eat for me and my mother, despite our different (but very strict) dietary requirements. I’m honestly grateful for the invitation and experience.

The whole event cost me maybe 3 hours. The food was very good, fresh, clean, and plentiful. They even labeled it to be very sure everyone could eat safely. The home was clean, well put-together, coordinated, spacious. Reminded me of family get-togethers in the past. The hosts and company were polite, good natured, fair-spoken, social. The conversation flowed, lightly touching on beliefs, current events, and personal experiences without me needing to help it along or even contribute much.

Which was good, because I was a fish out of water. I was underdressed: these were older people, dressed up in nice Sunday clothes. Uncomfortable clothes, to my recollection. I wore shorts and a soft T-shirt, and my blue-dyed hair in stark contrast to the natural colors represented in the room. I needed to tone down my words, my cursing, my emotional expression, to fit in.

I started out more myself, being on my phone with a new game I’d picked up the previous day. But as I looked around the room at the behavior of everyone else, I realized how poorly I was fitting in.

My socialization kicked in. I put away my phone and schooled myself to stillness and listened in a way that looked more attentive but was actually less so. Without something to occupy my fingers and part of my attention, I quickly became miserable thinking about all the things I could have been doing instead.

And it occurred to me during all this… this situation was representative of a lot of my childhood. I genuinely did not like being there. The niceties, the restraint, the delicate passing of the conversation from person to person without delving too deeply into any feelings or beliefs. That last bit, the lack of depth, might not be fair, honestly. But when I think on the conversations I’ve had with people I consider friends… they looked nothing like this.

My friends are typically direct, at least somewhat. They’re honest, and they often don’t flinch from uncomfortable subjects. The conversations provoke thought as well as laughter. Their humor is similar, tending into the absurd, occasionally bawdy, loud, and with clever wordplay.

In short, they’re a very far cry from what I experienced at this brunch. And it wasn’t like they were judging me, really, or that they said anything. They seemed honest and genuine. I just… couldn’t get comfortable. I couldn’t feel that I belonged, or that it was okay for me to be myself.

Socialization

In truth, it probably would have been fine for me to just be myself. Gotten out my phone, played my weirdass dinosaur Pokemon GO clone that my work friend showed me. Hummed to myself if I felt like it. Sat with one leg under me, asked for a blanket so I could be comfortable in the chilliness of the house. It would have been abnormal. Uncomfortable for everyone involved, but probably fine.

I just… couldn’t.

I know what my therapist would say: be yourself anyway. There weren’t going to be consequences besides not being invited back. Maybe some looks, uncomfortable body language, comments if people decided it really bothered them. Would have been really indirect, polite comments, judging by history. The kind that hurt the most because of all that’s not said. But frankly, I think I’m being unfair to these folks again. I think they genuinely were as nice and kind as they appeared, and I’m just letting bitterness from my past creep into my experience of the present.

So I should have just sucked it up and been myself.

When I talked to my mom about it afterwards, she thanked me for just…dealing with it. Which is how I was raised. That is exactly how I was raised. Don’t be too you, conform to social expectations regardless of how poorly they suit you, sit still, smile.

Be miserable.

Be miserable, and pretend you aren’t.

I live in a world that doesn’t comprehend how different I am. Those niceties and social norms work for a lot of people, without making them miserable. But not for me. And all too often, when it does, it reacts negatively. And that shit hurts. Especially when I was younger, it hurt a lot.

I’m not young anymore, but part of me is still 6 and fidgety and wanting to be reading a book or playing a game or folding origami rather than listening in miserable boredom as people talk on and on about subjects that don’t interest me enough to keep my full focus.

Match

About a week ago, I came back from a vacation. The first “just for me” vacation in like a decade. I visited people that accepted me for who I am, where I was, and however I wanted to be. I didn’t feel pressured to live up to some kind of set of expectations. It was amazing. It touched me in ways I couldn’t have believed or understood. Ways I’m still trying to sort out, even as my normal life, with my misery-inducing job, sinks its black claws into my soul.

And you know… they were just people, all of them. Flawed. Not really that different from random people on the street… except… except the shared experiences. Except the similar mentalities. The personality quirks, the tendencies. They’re like me. They like me. At worst they tolerate me.

I had no idea that was even possible. A single match here and there, with years between finding people like that, sure, maybe. A whole group? Madness. Logical, since “birds of a feather flock together.” But emotionally a non-reality to me. Until now.

There’s such a huge disconnect between the life I experienced while on vacation and the life I have right now. It’s so massive, it feels insurmountable. I could take more vacation, spend more time out there among these soul-kin I’ve found. But I’d run out of money eventually. I have responsibilities. A life, such as it is. A job, a house. Family.

I don’t know what to do. I’m so grateful to have found these people, these soul-kin. And so lost now that I have. So much of life is strongly affected by your perceptions and mental state. Like stripping colors from the world itself, misery changes the experience of life. It’s so much easier to be kind and good when you’re not miserable. So much easier to love yourself. To love others.

I’m tired of being miserable, though. I know that now. Isn’t 30 years of misery enough?

Pointers

Posted on by Realistic Autistic

It’s funny, I despised pointers in school. Pointers, in computer science, are like little Post Its with directions scribbled on them. They say “the information you’re looking for is stored here.”

I learned Java first. Java, being a newer programming language, takes care of its own pointers. But then I took a class on C++, which is slightly older. Suddenly I needed to know what pointers were, but also how to manage them. Forget to delete them, and your code got messy and inefficient, or even outright broke. It was exasperating.

So it’s funny how much of my brain now somewhat resembles a mass of pointers. Before the Internet broadened all our horizons so much, people knew how to do a few things. You learned from your dad or your aunt or whoever, how to change a tire. If you needed specialized knowledge, you asked someone at church or in one of your friend groups. Maybe you asked someone who knew someone and got an answer.

The process was slow. Inefficient. Much like humanity, I suppose. It did allow you to make new social connections in the process, or fail to do so, I guess.

It’s a very different world now. I’ve been an adult for years now. My dad did show me how to change a tire on a car… but in all honesty, I don’t remember how.

This isn’t a problem. I don’t need to remember how. All I need these days is my phone and YouTube. I did a quick search while writing this article, and stopped counting at 20 how-to guides. There are basic ones, starting with one that’s 12 years old (ancient by Internet standards). There’s ones by women for women. There’s ones by people who spell tire “tyre.” There’s even slightly related ones like how to change a dirt bike tire, motorcycle tire, or just generally about car tires.

The Internet is now in my pocket at all times. In my adult life, I think I’ve needed to change a tire maybe 5 times. It’s simply not worth it to try to keep that memory accessible. Instead, I outsource the knowledge to hundreds of enthusiastic YouTubers, who will, for the price of a few minutes of my attention, provide me with exactly the information I need.

I still memorize things, such as info I use for my job. How to run each machine, what things need to be set up and how. And to be fair, specialized knowledge like that often can’t be found online. My dad’s ultraspecialized chemistry knowledge, for example, is likely only found in textbooks or the heads of people like him.

That’s likely becoming less and less true as time goes on. The example in was going to use was “how to run the machine I use at my job,” but when I looked online, I found an hour and a half video of a maintenance guy explaining and demonstrating how the machine works, plus several other machines in less detail.

Granted, none of that information would tell you how to do my job, but it’s still far more than I expected to find. It probably helps that the USPS is a bigger company than McDonald’s, Wal-Mart, and Starbucks combined. So that’s a lot of plants and a whole lot of employees. But still, that information is supposed to be proprietary. We’re not supposed to have phones out in the plant and somebody did this whole lengthy video. The mind boggles.

I guess in the end it’s less important that I know how to do things, and more that I know how to problem solve or find the answers I need. I hope. But a brain full of pointers seems more efficient than the old way of doing things, at least for now.

Beyond Blue

Posted on by Realistic Autistic
Shine Through, by The Stupendium

This is a very good song. You should listen to the whole thing.

These specific spoken words, though, are what sparked this thought process.

And every day, you are picking a pigment
To place on the canvas life paints
So why choose grey?

I spent perhaps 27 years of my life depressed. The term is dysthymia, a long-lasting, lighter depression. It can last years. Or decades. And during that time I had dysthymia, this sentiment was echoed by people who cared about me. My brother, telling me my family was worried about me because I was sad or depressed all the time. And like… I get it. You want the people you care about to be happy.

Here’s the thing, though. I didn’t choose grey.

I can truly, honestly say that for certain now.

Why? Because I’m finally free of my depression. And being free, I can look back over my behavior and my choices and see, truly, that I tried so very hard not to choose grey. And… it mostly didn’t work.

It not working? That wasn’t my fault.

You see, what cleared up my depression was not the latest psychotherapy techniques, or a new philosophy, or some kind of changed mental process. It wasn’t drugs, pharmaceutical or recreational. I didn’t have some epiphany like in the movies. I didn’t vow to be different and, through force of will, make that a reality.

I tried that last one after my brother guilt-tripped me, actually. I tried to look on the bright side of things and be happier. It barely worked for a week. Then I ran out of energy, slipped, and went right back to neutral-to-slightly-depressed, where I’d lived before. Back to the land of everything just kind of sucking all the time.

No. Instead, my life crashed and burned, and by happenstance, or God’s urging, or whatever you please… I stopped eating dairy.

Actually I stopped eating pretty much everything but grapes. Which is a stellar way to break yourself of a sugar addiction, fyi. It was a hellish couple weeks and I had no energy, but grapes still vaguely tasted good and they were cheap, so that’s what I ate.

When I came back to myself after the shock, I realized what had happened, and decided to run with it. And slowly, I realized I was different without dairy and processed sugar in my food.

I was still deeply pained and sad, but… things began to change. I could smile at small things. I was gentler, kinder. You’d think, with the sheer amount of pain I was in, I would have been meaner and more withdrawn. But that wasn’t how it was. I was able to be kinder to others, and to myself.

In short, my depression was not chosen. It was biological. The result of a fragile biology tossed into the profoundly unhealthy US food industry.

Since making my first in person friends in high school, I’ve always tried not to choose grey. But all I could truly manage was to choose blue. One color, and the faded, muted, even washed out colors of a wan rainbow I could only grasp hopelessly at. Wishing for more. Believing there was more. Unable to reach it. But I never chose to be that way.

I love blue. All kinds of blue. It was who I was for decades. And in some ways, who I still am. It’s the best color. It’s what my hair has been for years. It’s what many of my possessions are.

But my life is no longer just shades of blue and grey. Slowly over the last miserable, horrible, stressful year, colors trickled in. And then recently, with the advent of a new friend, a blindingly bright rainbow flashed before my eyes. The same friend who gave me this song.

I am free to live in the rainbow once again.