The instability of trans* identities: a response to Caitlyn Jenner's latest blogpost (TW: SUICIDE)

I have yet to actually listen to any of Caitlyn Jenner's speeches or interviews, but today I read my first blog post she had written, in HuffPost's "Gay Voices" section. In this article, she touches on some issues facing the trans* community (and particularly trans* youth) at an alarming rate. Most of the article is spent with a block quote from the mother of a trans* youth who recently committed suicide. I won't say I love hearing narratives of other people's hardships dealing with mental health, trans* identities, and the intersectionality between those two, but I am always refreshed when I see a variety of faces telling their stories, and those stories being heard. That being said, Jenner's article reads more like a rattling off of statistics, which acts as a forward for a block quote. Where is Jenner's context? How does she feel? Prescott "was (and is) absolutely amazing," but is there more to that? Did it hurt your heart to hear her tell her story? I guess the article just seemed a little distant to me.

As someone who has been identifying as queer much longer than they've been identifying as trans*, and as someone who has struggled with mental health issues for a majority of their lifespan - which I feel is relatively short, but not when compared to those of my queer counterparts whose lives were cut much shorter - I tend to approach the subject of suicide and depression a little hastily. I'm typically a jumble of thoughts where I am half-offended when people jokingly say "I'm depressed" and the other half remains awkwardly silent, because if I'm already out as trans* and queer, do I really also have to come out about my weird mental stuff? That hardly seems fair, make the people I'm interacting with come out about something first!

I'm pretty fortunate in that my life has taken a dramatic upturn since the last time I tried committing suicide (I was sixteen, junior year of high school). There were several attempts before that, but that was my first real commitment to anything. Obviously, it didn't work. For a little bit immediately after that, things got much worse, and I was, for lack of a better word, bummed I had failed. I hate to use the cliché , but to really see a difference, I had to hit the absolute rock bottom - I just didn't know it went deeper than that moment. So no, I haven't tried again in nearly eight years. That isn't to say I haven't thought about it. I think about it all the time. That's one of the side effects of depression, anxiety, and existing as I do in a world like this, in a culture that is so vehemently hostile towards folks like me. Most folks that don't suffer from some form of mental health problem won't understand this, but - you get used to it. You get used to having incredibly dark thoughts in the background of your brain imagery and not needing to act on them. I'm so well-practiced at not reacting to those thoughts that I can almost comfortably read incredibly triggering material and think nothing more than, "yeah, I get that." It's a weird dynamic.

That being said, there's a lot of discussion being left out of the current conversation about trans* depression and suicide. I know the big one that came up with the passing of Leelah Alcorn is the one that really came close to home for me - and not just because Kings High School is my own alma mater. Granted, I am incredibly disappointed that Kings still seems to harbor the same toxic environment towards non-conforming students it did during my time there. When I moved on from that hellhole, I hoped that kids like me would have it easier; I expected that half a decade later, they would have made some progress. I'm disappointed, but not surprised.
The reason Leelah's passing hit so close for me is altogether different. If Leelah and I had been in school during the same period, I expect that our parents would have been very good friends. For those of you who don't know the background to her story, Leelah's parents are incredibly religious, zealous, even, and would lock her in her room for days at a time, restricting communication between her and her friends, the internet only a dream. They did it on the premise of "love," although love never looks like that (and don't let anyone tell you differently). Leelah decided she couldn't go on in that environment, and that was her right. It sucks that she couldn't find another way out, and we all get that, and we've all accepted it. That doesn't mean it isn't sad.
I didn't come out as trans* until I had been out of my mother's house for several years (coincidentally, I'm now in my mid-twenties and back in my mother's basement temporarily - that's a different story), but I did survive her during my teens as a pretty butch baby dyke. My mother is a sort of hybrid between a fundamentalist Christian and a conservative Jew. There's a name for people like these, and it isn't Jews for Jesus. This denomination works about the same as any other - a portion of them are great, a portion are indifferent, and a portion of them are horrible, callous, belittling, hateful people. I grew up around this different configuration of folks, and, consequently, left the movement as soon as I got my license. Throughout high school, my mother and I had our issues. We fought, I ran away, I lived with friends, she prayed and read her Bible, there was an incident with school counselors and CPS, and I was placed on suicide watch for quite a while during my high school years. I was a pretty angry teenager, although most people wouldn't have noticed. I drank, I partied, I dropped out of school, I lived in my car for a bit. I was hurt. I was hurt by my faith and the people who claimed to practice the same as me. It took me an incredibly long time to heal from those wounds (see my earliest blog posts about queer spirituality and faith), and I still don't claim to be entirely okay with it. I've finally arrived at a point where I can be comfortable around people who profess a faith, and I am able to accept that without feeling like I am walking on glass or being force-fed needles. I'm grateful that my own prejudices were only temporary, and while I'm still pretty conflicted about what I believe, I can only say I'm happy that my past injuries haven't prevented me from making some pretty amazing friends in the spiritual community around me.
How this all ties in to suicide and depression:
I was first "diagnosed" with depression and anxiety attacks around the time I was nine years old. My mother adamantly refused to believe mental health was a valid field of medicine (she might still, for all I know). She would not send me to therapists, would not pay for my medications, nothing. For years, I was denied to right to the help I needed because of my mother's old-fashioned sense of medicine and her religious beliefs. Instead of giving me what I needed, she "lifted me up" in her weekly prayer meetings, had her cohorts pray for me in tongues (something I still see as spiritual assault - I cannot stand the idea of being prayed for if I don't consent to it...generally because those people are praying for me in ways I don't see needing prayer). This denial played a huge part in the bouts of depression I would experience - I would frequently lock myself in my room for weeks at a time, only leaving for the restroom and a bowl of cereal, I suffered from eating disorders, I did a copious amount of recreational drugs, etc. - and would always eventually end in another suicide attempt or existential crisis. If you aren't locked in a physical room, you can always be locked in a mental one.

I get that Caitlyn may not be the most spiritual person on the face of the planet (or spiritual at all) - that's her prerogative, and I don't want to pretend otherwise. But if we're going to talk about cis adults bullying trans* kids, let's not pretend that faith and tradition and situational upbringing don't play a part in it. When someone denies your identity, it's not "just because." There are always a million reasons they refuse to acknowledge us, and there are a million ways to solve those problems. So instead of talking about statistics, let's talk about solutions. Instead of lingering in the memory of people we've lost, can't we use those memories to push us forward? It's been a huge year for trans* and queer rights, so why not make it bigger?

#blacklivesmatter, #translivesmatter, and whether or not they really matter (to anyone but us).

In sum:
Over the last year, we've seen the ranks of two hashtag movements swell and split. #blacklivesmatter took off with the shootings of Trayvon Martin and Michael Brown, and grew exponentially with each following death of a POC at the hands of the "American justice system." #translivesmatter, while a seemingly more private community - more constrained to the bounds of the LGBTQ (one could argue solely the transgender community at points), at least aside from the recent surge in popularity thanks to Caitlyn Jenner, Leelah Alcorn's passing, and others, frequently shadows the shouts of #blacklivesmatter, as an estimated 45% of hate crime murders are those of TWOC (trans* women of color), although they make up less than 15% of the population that is victimized by hate crime (http://www.glaad.org/blog/violence-against-transgender-people-and-people-color-disproportionately-high-lgbtqh-murder-rate).
This is all good and well. I am thrilled that minorities and groups of people that are frequently erased from existence and ignored and silenced are finally getting attention that they deserve and need. I am thrilled they are finally tired, that they have finally had enough. Hell, I'm even thrilled that gay marriage is finally a federal decision of legality.

What am I not happy about? I'm not happy that it took being chopped down in the prime of youth for these movements to come about. I'm not happy that murder is making demands for justice. I'm not happy that institutional racism or cissexism weren't enough. I'm mad that I spent years working for gay marriage and my trans* brothers and sisters are still being murdered in cold blood, because who cares, if the rest of the community has marriage now? Not most of them. The good ones, sure. But not the vast majority of allies, who don't even show transgender folks (especially those of color, unless it's...y'know, Laverne Cox or Janet Mock), as a blip on their radar. Those who don't realize they probably know someone who is struggling with that identity and is terrified because they have no one they can tell. That the allies of racial justice tend to ignore the LGBTQ community on a grand scale, and the allies of the LGBTQ community tend to be one-issue-minded drones and are here for the gay white people (the pink economy), but not the rest of us.

Things at the federal level frustrate me, and things at a personal level frustrate me, and really? I just have no idea what to write about or who I'm writing for, or even who is doing the writing anymore.

I had bigger plans for this. I had a better post to write. I had goals, and now I'm just content waking up in the morning for my coffee and others' blogs.