On Years Old and New (Or, Here We Go, 2016...)

I am the New Year stereotype. Every December 31, like clockwork, I get nostalgic and reflective. I write something down - sometimes it's short, other times not so much - about the year that was and resolve to be a better version of myself in the year that will be.

None of this is leading into a, "Not this time, though..." transition. I'm going to do everything I just said. I don't mind being a stereotype. Just wanted to let you know what you were in for.

The thing is, I like having these written records. They keep things in perspective, keep me from remembering the past as being all good or all bad. And they help me learn.

Many years ago, as I was emerging from one of my worst bouts of anxiety and depression that I didn't have the language or awareness to describe as anxiety or depression yet, I very much felt the need to assert some measure of control over a life that felt like it was spiraling away from me (which made no sense, because it was mine). As I was falling asleep one night, I decided that the next day was going to be a Good Day. Not, "good," in the sense that it would be the best. Not even, "good," in that nothing bad would happen. It would be a Good Day because that's how I would approach it and all that came with it.

So often, I would let one unfortunate thing - waking up late, missing a bus, a rude cashier, whatever - set my tone. I'd write off entire days, weeks, months, years as awful. Wasted. The product of a vengeful universe. The ease of it felt good. It soothed the frustration of dealing with the people and circumstances I couldn't control and absolved me of the responsibility of taking ownership of things I could if I weren't so afraid. Nothing you can do if the universe is against you, right? No point in trying if you're already guaranteed to fail.

What I learned fairly quickly - or, at the very least, was finally forced to acknowledge - through practicing this aggressive optimism was that there is no such thing as the universe being against you. Or even for you. Things happen. We handle them. Sometimes well, sometimes not so much. Ultimately, at the end of each day, we're all given an opportunity to decide what we think about the world and ourselves in it.

2015 sucked royally in many ways (poetry). I lost family. I lost track of me for a little bit. I struggled through one of the worst depressive periods I've had in a while, and I did not talk about it or reach out until it was over because I was too ashamed and embarrassed. My self-care toolbox got dusty and, in some cases, left behind completely.

But 2015 was also the year I learned that, while I can still get lost, there is no limit to the number of times I can find myself again. I met new people. I made new things. There were big changes and challenges and accomplishments, and at the end of it all, now, on December 31, I am here. And I think the world and I are worthwhile. We are not perfect, and parts of us are dark and ugly and in need of some serious maintenance, but we deserve the work. We are worthy.

I'm not entirely naive. I know that not every day can be a good day. Not every year can be a good year. But I don't believe in writing any of it off. My time is not a waste, no matter what I do with it. That, for me, is the difference between good and Good.

So here we go. 2016. I'm going to help write an opera. You'll be hearing about that soon. I'm going to ride my bike from here to L.A. You'll hear about that too. I'm going to try new things, push new boundaries, make some changes. And that's just the stuff I'm planning - who knows what else will come along? It's all very exciting and horrifying, but I'm getting used to that feeling.

There will be rough things too. I can't know what they will be or where they will come from. Nor can I spend my time living in fear of their arrival. I just have to trust that I can take what comes my way, and remember that I don't have to do it all alone.

Tomorrow is a brand new thing. Be the stereotype, if that's what you want: join a gym, go for a hike, buy a bunch of vegetables, get a shiny new dayplanner, ask someone out. Whatever feels right. Just don't use the year that will be to punish yourself for the year that was.

No wasted time.

Note: I can't end that serious, so hey, didja notice? New title! I've had a dietary shift over the last few months. After about five years of living a predominately vegan lifestyle, I've reincorporated some dairy, fish, and eggs. I initially started eating vegan because I had major food-related problems that I won't get into here and needed the nutritional education and appreciation. My health, my relationship with food and with my body, and just my overall well being improved dramatically. Now that I have that foundation, this felt like a natural next step for me personally. 

I still eat predominately vegan, and I don't believe I'll ever start eating red meat or poultry again - I've lost my taste and desire for it - but bottom line is the label just isn't accurate anymore. New year, new title, same blog!

On HIV

Hey, pals.

Another November post. I know. What's next, lakes of fire?

Don't worry. The world isn't ending - despite how jacked up things are right now, which is putting it lightly - and this is just going to be a short one.

But first, a note: aside from my passing reference above, I'm not going to be discussing the attacks in Paris or anywhere else - at least not in digital space. On a practical level, I have nothing to add to the already exhaustive and largely irresponsible news cycle. On a personal level, that news cycle is damaging to me. Self-care right now means keeping myself at a distance, keeping the world in my heart and mind, and holding the people in my life a little closer. Please don't mistake my silence for apathy.

I will just say this: there's a difference between acting in self-defense and reacting out of fear.

Anyway.

The other thing pulling media attention at the moment is Charlie Sheen's disclosure that he is HIV positive. We're not going to talk about Charlie Sheen - I don't know him. But his announcement has put HIV back in the news and has exposed the fact that there is still a stunning lack of education about and understanding of the virus. And again, I never know who's reading this and who isn't, but because this is something that matters to me - and because I hate that it's so easy to spread misinformation via clickbait and sensationalism - I wanted to do something.

So here are some quick bullets to get you started on a larger journey.

1) HIV is not AIDS.

HIV and AIDS are often mentioned in the same breath, but they are not the same thing. You'd be surprised at how many people - reporters included - do not know this. One can be HIV positive without contracting AIDS (not vice versa, though). They are two different things and should be discussed as such.

2) Both HIV and AIDS are incurable.

This is where language can be the most confusing/misleading for laypeople. Treatment for HIV and AIDS has come a long, long way since the 80's and 90's when infection was essentially an instant death sentence. HIV regimens and antiretroviral therapies have increased lifespans and reduced the possibility of transmitting infection so, so dramatically. However, do not mistake the term, "undetectable viral load," for, "cure." As of right now, there is no cure. That's why knowing your status, getting treated, and staying on that treatment is so important.

3) Many people do not know their HIV status.

This bullet point (this whole post, really) is not meant to scare or shame anyone. If anything, it's meant to highlight one of the worst side effects of a lack of education about HIV. Once the most immediate threat passed, getting tested stopped being a priority for a lot of people. Knowing the status of a partner stopped being as much of a priority.

Here's the thing: if you're going to have sex with someone, you should know their status and yours. Have that conversation. Even more so if you're having unprotected sex. Get tested. Get tested again if and when you have sex with a new partner. Get tested again if and when your partner has sex with a new partner. Tons of places provide free access to quick tests now, and early detection could 100% save your life and possibly someone else's.

4) There is no way to 100% guarantee you will not transmit HIV.

This sort of goes hand-in-hand with, "undetectable viral load," not being the same thing as, "cure." The terms, "virtually impossible," and, "impossible," are also very, very different.

Now, you may be thinking, "Duh," and wanting to punch me in the face, but I'm not trying to condescend. I'm trying to remind.

I'm also not trying to say don't have sex. Just have communicative sex - the chance, however minuscule, that you could transmit infection means that it is always your responsibility to disclose your status to any partner if you are positive. I don't mean to suggest that this is an inherently easy thing to do when there's an actual cargo ship of absolutely unfair stigma still attached, but not doing so robs your partner of informed consent.

5) HIV doesn't discriminate. Don't be an ass about it.

Some subgroups of society have higher infection rates than others. Great stat.

Here's the thing: to say that somebody, "asked for," infection or, "deserves it," because they're LGBT or promiscuous or used drugs or had unprotected sex or felt too uncomfortable to ask about a partner's status or just straight up didn't think is a 100% dick move. Shit happens to the careless. Shit happens to the careful. We're all people, and thus we're all deserving of compassion, love, respect, and a recognition of dignity. Nothing changes that.

Continue to get yourself informed by people way more pro-status than I am. I recommend the San Francisco AIDS Foundation, but no matter what, just make sure you're engaging with a reputable source.

See ya in December (for real this time)!

On Journeys (Or; Go, Guy, Go...)

It's November.

That means it's National Novel Writing Month, and due to the glorious torture that is committing to NaNoWriMo, I don't usually blog much/at all during November. Because if I'm going to spend my time putting words together in a way that makes sense, I'm going to make sure they count toward that 50,000, damn it.

But I'm having a moment. Naturally, that means all planning and logic have gone out the proverbial window, and here we are.

See, this also happens to be my last evening as a 28 year-old.

Full disclosure, I'm 100% obsessed with my birthday. Not in a gross everybody-pay-attention-to-me-and-shower-me-with-gifts-all-day-yes-thnx way. I just really, really dig being alive. It's pretty much my favorite. I love having a reason to get friends together in one place and just celebrate being, and I'm going to stand by that forever, no matter how much of an internet hippie it makes me.

I also love the ritual - the bowing out of the year that was and the ushering in of the year that will be. I try to go out with a few new things and adventures. Ditto for kicking things off.

As it happens, I'm kicking 29 off in Disneyland, where I'll be spending the weekend running two races. On purpose. For fun?

Take a minute for that. I still am, and I signed up for this months ago. I'm not sure when I decided birthday meant, "Physical Challenge!" (bummed already that there are probably those amongst you too young for the reference), but there it is. A friend of mine sent a message of encouragement this morning that was simply, "Go, guy, go!" What else is there to say, besides, "Don't destroy your bod, crazy!"

I've been saying, "I really don't do things like this," except I guess I do now. With increasing regularity, actually.

If you've lurked around this digital space of mine even a little bit over the past three years or so, then you know that I've been on a journey of sorts. There have been major highs, crushing lows, and a lot of little victories and setbacks that haven't necessarily warranted documentation. Not here, anyway.

And this...man, I hate the word journey. Really, I do. It feels so lofty. This, let's say, "ongoing whatever," of mine...it's changed me. In every way possible. I'm stronger and braver and smarter. I don't spray anger everywhere they way that I did for a while - which is not to say that I have the perfect temper, but I'm doing my best while striving for better. I'm not owned by fear - not all the time, anyway. Not in the same way. I'm still working on that too.

That's the thing of it, you know. I don't think I realized it when I started, not really, but the ongoing whatever...it's always going to be ongoing. I'll always be working. And it is bitter work sometimes - soulless, joyless, painful, and so very far from fair.

But the idea of stopping now that I've got momentum...it's not an option. If I'm being honest, the idea of giving up and holding still again is actually more frightening than any unknown challenge that most assuredly lies ahead. Because now I know how much better things can get. That's not to say that I can't be present and happy with what is. Far from it - but, "what is," has to be looked after, then built upon as it becomes, "what was." We are the sum of our parts and experiences, right? Puzzle pieces.

Last day of 28, and when I look in the mirror, I see a version of myself that is puzzle pieces finally come together: the love of family and friends, the support and advice of teachers and mentors, the foundation of self-care, the messy bits - failures and frustrations and heartbreaks. The process - the assembly - makes more and more sense all the time. All of that...it made a thing. A me.

And she never wants to stop going, to stop working, to stop moving.

Guess that's growing up.

Go, guy.

Go.

On the Cult of Pumpkin, Pt. 1 (Or, Pumpkin Things I Have Known, Pt. 1)

Hey, pals! I've been blog-absent for quite some time. The reasons are varied and predominately boring. Suffice to say, my head and my heart have been other places for the past few months. But I love this space. I love what I've been able to use it for, and I hope you fine folks who sometimes stumble across it do too. So here's me hopefully easing back into at least a semi-regular posting routine with a good ol' fashioned recipe.

Unless you're reading this long after I posted it (or unless you traveled back in time and are reading it before I posted it), it's October! If you're in a place with real weather, that probably means the air is getting colder, the leaves are changing, and the whole world is autumnal as hell. I say, "probably," because I'm in glorious San Francisco, where, "October," generally means, "layering in the morning, desperately stripping down in the afternoon, and keeping a hat and scarf in your bag for evening so you don't have to face living a life of regret."

But the great uniter for us all this month/season is: pumpkin. Apparently, it's really become a thing - pumpkin spice is the new [insert cultish food reference]. And I get it. All hipster trendiness aside, pumpkin and pumpkin-spice things are evocative - they create a full sensory experience. One that says, "Hey, get ready for shorter days, darker nights, and a bevy of gorgeous opportunities to bust out your favorite sweater/tie combos." Or maybe that's just me.

Part of the problem nowadays, though, is that the market is so oversaturated with products that are meant to harness our squasheriffic love. In all the excitement, it can be hard to separate the yays from the nays. That's why I'm going to spend a little bit of time this month highlighting some of my favorite things that feature pumpkins in a starring role - starting with the recipe after the jump!

On Assumptions (Or, Aw...Bro...)

I was on a mission yesterday.

Before we get into that, some background: I love comic books. Not exclusively hero comics, but they were my gateway and I still read plenty. One of my favorites is Matt Fraction and David Aja's run on Marvel's Hawkeye. The book follows the titular character's day-to-day when he is out of uniform, when he is Clint Barton rather than Hawkeye. It is a book that, by Fraction's own admission in interviews, should not have worked. But it did. Its sincerity and humor connected with readers on an epic scale, and I am one of them.

In fact, due to my apparent penchant for falling and his tendency to be busted, I've assumed the mantle of, "the Clint Barton of cycling." I think I wear it well, albeit painfully. More often than not, I ride in one of my myriad purple Hawkeye shirts (all from the collection Fraction curates for WeLoveFine to benefit Futures Without Violence). If you see me, say hi. Just be prepared for me to possibly do myself harm in trying to return the greeting.

So, naturally, when I discovered that Marvel Select had just released a Hawkeye figure from the Fraction/Aja run, complete with Lucky the Pizza Dog and alternate bandaged head, I had to make it happen. 

I'm a toy person, but this was my first action figure purchase in a while. Budget/space concerns and an irritating but growing sense of practicality have made me much more selective over the past couple years. I don't like the way most are designed these days, and the high end figures  - while beautiful works of art - are way out of my price range. So this was kind of a big deal. And you cannot imagine my delight when I laid eyes on this magnificent, lovingly detailed bastard.

Side note: Yes, that is my very professional grown-up workspace. You can also see some of my Avengers Minimates, a Rocket Raccoon Pop vinyl, the Manchester United door poster that traveled from Ireland to San Francisco to Seattle and back to San Francisco (there is a hole in it that I'm in denial about), the Tim Lincecum jersey I got signed at Spring Training in 2010 that I still have not framed, and two bottles of my favorite bourbon. Don't worry. They don't make it anymore. I opened one of those bottles in December and toasted the end of The Legend of Korra with my best friend. It's for special occasions only, obviously.

That should be it, right? Just a fun story about one grown-up lady buying an action figure with her grown-up lady money to put on her grown-up lady desk. But it's a little more complicated than that.

When it was my turn to check out, I handed the package to the cashier. He smiled and cheerfully asked me if I was excited about Age of Ultron. I said I was, and we chatted a little. Then, he asked, "So, you're a big Hawkeye girl? Jeremy Renner and his bow and arrows are your thing?"

I was taken aback for a minute. I hadn't been asked a question like that in a really long time.

"I'm a fan of the comics," I responded, "And Black Widow is really more my type."

I said it kindly and made sure it was clear that I wasn't mad - because I wasn't. This guy obviously had no ill intent - he was trying to make friendly conversation, which is what retail requires of us all. He'd just gone about it the wrong way, and I let him know it.

For the record, my answer to his accidentally leading questions was honest - I was buying the figure specifically because it was comic book Clint, not movie Clint - not knocking him, we just don't have the same connection. And I'm 100% more attracted to the Widow. 

The cashier looked at me and made an assumption. Female customer, male character, she must think he's hot.* Let's agree that if the character were female, or if I were male, the conversation would've been different. That, ladies and gentlemen, is sexism. Gentle, non-threatening, probably accidental sexism. But.

We do this everyday - I'm just as guilty of it as anyone. We look at people and we try to sort them, place them, categorize them. We make assumptions and judgments about race, gender, orientation, and so many other things. We impose our own perceptions on other people based on information we think we have, and we miss opportunities to really see them.

Sometimes, we do it on purpose. That sucks.

Most of the time, we do it without even realizing it, usually with little things. That might be worse. It's easier to let ourselves off the hook for these small, seemingly harmless transgressions. 

Learning to ask people who they are and really let them tell us is a process. We need to have patience when others make mistakes, but we also need to play some part in correcting them. We need to own that we ourselves makes mistakes and that we can learn from them.

I let my cashier know that I existed outside of the box he assigned me, and he responded in kind. We talked about the comics I loved and his own Widow crush. It was great.

How could we have arrived at the same awesome place with less sexist beginnings? He could have led with, "Is Hawkeye your favorite?" Same friendly interest, no accidental assumptions about my motives or orientation based on my gender.

Easy fix, but it can be hard to get into the habit of resetting your defaults.

I think we're all up to the challenge, though.

*To clarify, there is absolutely nothing wrong with loving a character and buying said character's merch because you find him/her attractive.

On Little Victories (Or, Pictures of You - But Actually Me...)

Strap yourself in, dear reader, because I have a confession to make.

Remember my post about my first tattoo? Not to brag or anything, but it's my most read piece, which makes what I'm about to say that much worse. You may recall that said post was punctuated with a photo of myself with Janet Varney, performer/producer/podcaster extraordinaire and creator of the content that led to my wrist buddy. It's a cute picture. A cute picture that harbors a terrible secret.

Are you ready for it?

...

I have food on my face.

Man. It feels good to let that go.

I realized it almost immediately, of course - it was just a wee bit of curry ketchup (all that remained of the top notch vegan hot dog I'd consumed about 10 minutes prior, thanks, Outside Lands), barely noticeable. Virtually impossible to notice, in fact, unless you were looking for it. But I knew it was there, and had to face the grim reality that it would always be there, haunting me. The question was, would I be able to suffer in silence?

Now, I say, "suffer," like I didn't immediately put it in a blog post less than 24 hours later and use it as my Facebook profile picture for months. Perspective, guys. I do sort of have it.

I did keep the secret for well over a year, though I finally told my best friend and one or two other trusteds when I couldn't take it anymore. Who knew this baby spot of ketchup would become my way less murdery Tell-tale Heart?

I didn't know Janet very well then. I know her better now, and trust her pretty implicitly based on how that's gone. What I'm saying is, in the time between those two points, I probably definitely could've explained the situation and asked for another picture to eradicate the shame. Friends do that. Unless your friend is me, because I am a ridiculous person.

Cut to the last weekend in March. I was in Seattle for a long overdue visit, prompted in part because my favorite places from when I used to live up there keep closing (R.I.P, Piecora's and the Easy Street on Mercer). It was a visit I'd planned to coincide with Emerald City Comic Con, which I'd loved and always regretted not attending every year I was in school. It was a special con for a lot of reasons. It was an emotional con for a lot of reasons. Partway through, I had to start wrestling with the reality that I was losing a family member back home. It was a much more overwhelming and raw trip than I ever could've known when I bought my tickets last fall. That's life, you know? I don't believe the universe punishes you, but it's a little harder to remember that it also doesn't play by your rules.

I'm letting you know all this because I want to make it clear that on the last day of the con, when I placed myself squarely at the back of Janet's last signing line, it was with a serious mission. She was a guest, obviously, and we'd gotten to see each other already. I'd even asked my first question ever at a convention during her panel the day before, as it had seemed like the safest place to do it (also probably my last question at a convention, because it was still horrifying). Under other circumstances, I probably would've texted, "Bye," and gone on living my life. But, like I said, I was a little raw and a little overwhelmed. So sure, I wanted to say a proper goodbye to a friend that I don't see very often, but more than that, I wanted a victory. I wanted to make up for Foodgate '13.

Janet checked in with me about what was going on in my life, because she is a good person. I lost my composure and cried for a minute, because I am a human person. After that, we got down to business. I laid out the tragic story of our only existing picture together, and she agreed that we needed to rectify the matter. Then, to my surprise, I added this: "Also, I don't even look like myself in that picture." It was not a thought I'd shared, publicly or privately, but as soon as I said it, I knew it was true. Take a look at this (I'm the brunette, duh).

That girl is six months away from coming out, and that honesty is going to finally let her settle into her life. She's stiff and she's nervous. You can't tell, but she's wearing a dress, and while she knows how to do it, it doesn't feel quite right - it's a style, not her style. Soon she's going to learn how to tie a bow tie, and that's going to change everything. Almost a year to the day later, she's going to sit in a salon with the hair she'd been growing out for lack of a better idea and say, "I want something different, but I don't know what," and because her stylist is a genius, she's going to walk out looking exactly the way she didn't even know she wanted to (one of her favorite fictional characters will follow suit soon after, and she will be unabashedly smug about it). She's going to start running and she'll learn how to ride a bike and just start doing a whole mess of stuff that terrifies her. That girl is going to remake herself, not to spite who she is, but because of who she is.

And the thing is, I love that picture. Food (can you see it?!?!?!) be damned, it's kind of the beginning of a friendship that I value very much, and it's a stop on a big journey that's gotten me to a place where I feel more like myself - physically, mentally, artistically - than I ever have. The girl in that picture has a lot of work ahead of her, but she fucking did it, you know? She took that on.

The result of that work is that I feel so at home in my body now. I'm nesting within myself, building better foundations and hanging art and decorating exactly the way I want to. Boys and girls are allowed here now. My outside matches my inside, and it's so much easier to move and breathe and be. Because of that, while I do feel total affection for the photo above, I can't look at it and say, "Hey, there's CDog being CDog."

Suddenly, my little victory wasn't about pure vanity anymore. It was about the fact that I had gotten up that morning after a rough night and still put on a shirt and tie because it made me happy. It was about the fact that I stood in line and engaged strangers in conversation. It was about the fact that I let myself feel my feels for a second and be supported by a friend, and despite all of that, still wanted to take a picture. And not the super posed awkward prom picture that I take with strangers. A good, proper, here's-me-making-the-face-I-make-when-I'm-relaxed-because-pictures-are-ridiculous picture.

...and it was about vanity. A little bit.

The girl below? She looks like me. And she's got a lot more stuff ahead of her. Some of it's going to suck royally. Some of it's going to be totally rad. But check it out. I think she's going to be okay, don't you?

On Teaching Acceptance (Or, No More Hiding...)

There's a thing I've been trying to talk about, and I don't know how. So I'm going to talk about me for a little while.

I learned what it meant to be gay in school.

It was maybe around 1996. I was about ten years old. We were in music class. It was December, and we were singing, “Deck the Halls.” One of the boys raised his hand and asked what, “gay apparel,” meant, not because he was curious, but because ten is the age when kids really start figuring out how to be snarky. The old-school nun behind the piano looked at him sharply and said, “In this song, it means happy. It also means something very inappropriate that we don’t talk about. But in this song, it means happy.”

I’d heard, “gay,” used the other way before, but not with enough context to understand what it meant. This was pre-Google, and I wasn't going to ask my parents, so I didn't really have a lot to go on. Now I knew – sort of. It meant something bad.

That’s how easy it is to plant an idea in the mind of a trusting child. I still get upset about it, about the months I spent genuinely believing it.

It was my older sister who eventually set me straight, as it were. Six years my senior, she’d often pick me up and bring me back to her high school if she had meetings and both of my parents were working too late to pick me up from extended care on time. We had a good relationship – I was never treated like a cumbersome little sister, never banished to a corner or told to stay away from her friends. I knew her friends, and liked them. One of them, I learned, was gay, and I whispered a question about him once. Maybe she didn’t know?

“Yeah,” she said firmly, “It’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

That’s all it really took to reverse the damage that had been done.  I had wanted, since learning its true definition, to believe that being gay was fine, because it seemed a silly thing to think otherwise. It’s equally silly that I needed somebody else to give me permission to trust my own feelings about the matter, but I was ten. I’m willing to forgive kid me for not being better.

I was raised Catholic, and I received an exclusively Catholic education, from kindergarten right on through to college graduation. During this massive chunk of my life, I learned a lot. When I hit high school, my personal value system really started to form, and I was so lucky to have teachers who encouraged me to trust myself. A few of those teachers really stepped up and acted as mentors, patiently helping me navigate the challenges and curveballs that got thrown my way while I tried to carve out my path. They never judged. They always listened.

When I think of the eighteen year-old kid in her college dorm who had just experienced conscious feelings for a woman for the first time, I think of how much harder it could’ve been for her if she’d been born to a different family in a different city. I know it would’ve been harder if she’d had different teachers.

It was still hard. It would be another two years or so – two years of quiet denial and confusion – before I fully understood and accepted that I was bisexual. It would be another eight years before I said it out loud.

Full disclosure: my master plan was to only indulge the attraction I felt toward men so that I would just never have to talk about it. It was a really dumb plan. Like, it was always a dumb plan, because feelings are feelings and we should really just go with them, but it was especially dumb because wherever I fall on the wider and much debated spectrum, I’m for sure attracted to women more often. Not exclusively. But more often. If you're thinking of adopting a similar plan, maybe don't. Just some friendly advice.

Saying it out loud? Best ever. There was so much of me that I was holding back because ridiculous, paranoid closet logic told me that letting it out would let everyone know. You know how sometimes you’re playing hide and seek, and you’ve got the best hiding spot, but after a while you kind of just want to be found so that you can go back to having fun being loud and visible and a part of the world? That’s how I felt at the end of that gross and complicated decade.

I don’t know that I hid all that well. There were people who definitely knew, or suspected. Toward the end, the closet door was cracking like crazy, I was so sick of keeping it closed. But it was a punishing way to live all the same, and I want to go back to that me and let her know that it's all going to work out.

Once I did it and the initial wave of euphoria passed, I spent a lot of time being irritated with myself. It was upsetting to acknowledge that I spent such a long time denying a huge part of my identity, not because I thought it was wrong, but because I thought it was wrong for me. I had gotten so worried about what people would think that it felt like I had arrested my development – like I had wasted time in understanding myself, and was now behind everyone in the race to be a person.

People who were much younger than I was with much more to lose came out everyday. I felt like a coward and a hypocrite.

Last November, I got to see Rhea Butcher and Cameron Esposito live for the first time. I was a week off my first bike accident. I was tired, my ribs were kind of busted, and I needed the laughs. I got much more. Rhea and Cameron are stand-ups and fiancées. They talk about their lives without apology. Their sets touched me and made me happy in a way that I don’t think they could have if I hadn’t stepped up and taken ownership of who I am. Post-show, after receiving compliments from them on my tie (always makes me proud), I said, “Listen, I came out this year, and what you said – what you do – really means a lot.” I mean, I probably said it way worse than that because I was nervous and being nervous makes me a jackass, but that’s what I meant to say. And immediately, Cameron pulled me in for a hug, then looked me in the eye with a big smile and said, “Hey! You’re doing it!”

That stuck with me in a big way. I have no problem admitting that I repeat it to myself when I hit rougher patches, when I start to get mad at myself or do something that scares me. It was a nice thing for one stranger to say to another stranger because she knew, and I’m grateful for it.

The way we treat each other matters. The things we say to each other matter. Words carry weight, whether we want them to or not.

Ugly words have been thrown around recently by powerful people in my city. It’s upsetting, disturbing language designed to denounce and condemn. It can call itself whatever it wants, but that is what it is. And it is wrong.

These words, and worse, have existed for a long time. But now it feels like they’re in my home, in my safe space. I’ve been trying to write about it for weeks and I haven’t been able to. I get too angry to do it right.

I don’t know that this is doing it right.

So yeah, rather than talking about it, I decided to talk about me. Because there wasn’t some Divergent-y ceremony when I turned eighteen where I stood up in front of my peers and sliced my hand open over the bowl of bisexuality, making my choice. It’s who I’ve always been. I started writing stories when I was in grade school, guys. It is not that difficult to read between the lines and see that I was a little bi kid with gently romantic feelings for a pretty diverse range of people.

My parents didn’t get weird when I didn’t want to play with dolls and begged for a poster of Jennifer Love Hewitt to put above my dresser, where she remained for years, looking amazing. When I came out to them, they said okay, and kept right on loving me. I’m so, so lucky for all of that.

Despite what some of the textbooks and official party lines may have said, my teachers taught me to honor myself exactly as I was, because that was more than enough. I don’t know that I believe in a higher power – and I’m so happy in the not knowing, so don’t worry about me – but if I did, the one with that message is the one I’d get behind.

I’m a teacher now. I’ve had chances to be the mentor, advisor, and non-judgmental ear that my teachers were to me, and I hope that I’ve done even half as well as they did. Standing up and being myself – loving who and what I love, wearing what I wear, doing what I do – feels like a responsibility now as much as a right.

There is no rule, no word, no power that will make me go back to hiding any part of who I am, nor tell anybody else to do so.  

I will do my best to lead by example, because I’m in a position right now to do that. I will continue to try and be a good person, who surrounds herself with others who are trying to be good people.

“Good,” is not who you love or do not love. It is not who or if you marry, how or if you have kids, who or what you believe in. It’s not what you look like or where you came from.

It is how you are. To yourself. To others.

I will teach acceptance.

And I stand proudly with teachers and students and parents and people who are doing the same.

Hey. We’re doing it.

On Breakfasting in the New Year (Or, Here's a Porridge Recipe...)

I holidayed hard, guys.

With a vengeance.

It's not an uncommon story. Equal parts revelry and lack of time lead to sustaining oneself on hors d'oeuvres, candy canes, and whiskey for a month (note: I don't think I actually had any candy canes)(for sure the rest, though). I was more vegetarian than vegan, and I have no regrets. It was a fun month. A fun month that ended with me being not entirely sure when I'd last had a vegetable and reasonably certain that I was suffering from a mild amount of self-inflicted malnutrition.

Needless to say, when the tinsel settled, it was time to detox.

Now, "detox," is a very strong word. When some people use it, they mean they're going to embark on some kind of magic juice cleanse or fast. Good luck to them. When I use it, all I really mean is that I start paying attention to what I'm doing again. It only took about two days for my blood to stop hurting, so I have faith in my system.

For me, a decent breakfast is key to making good choices for the rest of the day. However, I'm not going to get up any earlier to make it, so breakfasts that are quick and easy - or that I can prepare in advance on the day I set aside to do my cooking for the week - are also my friend.

I kicked off 2015 with a nifty little dish I found on Pinterest last summer that happens to meet both requirements, a raw buckwheat chia porridge that is super easy and satisfying. It's also vegan and gluten free, so extra snaps if either of those things apply to you or you're having friends over for breakfast that you don't want to poison. Recipe after the jump.