Symptoms of Being Human (9 page)

NEW POST: REBEL REBEL (WITHOUT A CAUSE)

OCTOBER 7, 10:22 PM

Forgive me, Bloglr, for I have sinned. It has been two whole days since my last post.

Thank you for your kind messages and comments. Also, thank you to all my new followers. I know that most of you probably found me through QueerAlliance, so thanks to them for featuring me on their site. I honestly don't know what I did to deserve that, but I'll try to live up to the honor.

NOW PLAYING: “Rebel Rebel” by David Bowie

But now, dear readers, I need your help. The next phase of my therapy includes an assignment: I MUST FIND A CAUSE. Something that will get me out of my own head. Stop me from thinking about
me
so much. So here
are my ideas, in no particular order:

Animal rights (vegan activism, protests, and stuff)

Community Service (the helping-old-people kind, not the picking-up-trash-in-an-orange-vest kind)

Antibullying club (if they have one at my school)

Aaaand that's all I have. Seriously, I need your help on this. Badly. Please send me ideas.

#genderfluid #animalrights #vegan #anxiety #recovery

I click Post, then start sorting through my inbox. Mostly, I've received nice messages from new followers, thanking me for sharing, or inviting me to check out their blogs. There are a few negative anons, but none of them are quite as rude as “your a fag,” and I delete them quickly. The good messages outnumber the bad by at least five to one. After about half an hour, I come to a particularly interesting, but utterly inappropriate, question, and I decide to issue another smackdown à la my apostrophe post.

Anonymous: Okay, so sometimes u feel like a boy, and sometimes u feel like a girl. How do u have sex?

Alix: Well, I haven't actually had sex yet, so technically I'm not qualified to answer. And, while I understand you're curious, you need to know that “How do you have sex?” is a cataclysmically impolite question. Like, would you ask your cismale
¹
friend how he has sex:

You: Yo, Bif, you have a penis. How do you have sex?

Bif: What, you want me to describe it?

You: Yes, please.

Bif: Why?

You: I have a nearly sociopathic disregard for both your privacy and your feelings.

Bif: Wow, that's . . . really honest. I am strangely compelled to grant your request.

You: Please provide graphic anatomical detail. Visual aids would help. Perhaps a series of animated gifs.

Bif: Sounds like a lot of work. How about I just use a vulgar euphemism instead?

You: Sold.

Bif: Okay. The airplane lands in the hangar, and then it takes off again. And then it lands again. And then it takes off again. . . .

You: This is a terrible metaphor. It sounds like you're describing feeding a baby.

Bif: I did say it would be a vulgar euphemism.

You: Wow. I am filled with regret for having pursued this uncouth line of inquiry.

Bif: I forgive you. Here, I have made for you an elaborate stop-motion film using Play-Doh and the camera on my phone. This should explain everything.

You: This is very informative. I hope you are nominated for an Oscar.

¹
Footnote: For those of you joining us from outside the LGBTQ bubble: “cis” (pronounced like the “sis” in “sister”) is sort of like the opposite of “trans.” More specifically, it means you identify as the gender you were assigned at birth. To put it crudely, cismale = you have
a penis and you feel like a boy. Cisfemale = you have a vagina and you feel like a girl. Okay, that's a gross oversimplification, but it's the best I can do on short notice. Feel free to Google it. /Public Service Announcement

I sort through a few more messages, and then, just as I'm clicking Post on my final answer of the night, the envelope icon turns red again.

Anonymous: Hi Alix. I hope you answer this. I'm writing from my phone at the train station right now. I don't know where else to go. I don't even know how to start so I'll just say it. I came out to my parents about 2 hours ago that I'm a trans girl. After I told them, my mom sort of shrank back and put a hand over her mouth and didn't say anything. My dad started yelling at me. He said I'm not his son. I told him I wish I could be his daughter instead. And then he hit me. And I left. And now I keep staring at the train tracks and thinking I should just throw myself down there. Please reply.

I let out a long, slow breath. This one is
not
a joke; it's serious. And I don't feel qualified to respond to something this intense—maybe even life-or-death—but at the same time . . . she reached out to me, and she's desperate. I check the time stamp. The message was sent less than three minutes ago; if I'm going to reply, I should do it now. But what do I even say? Hands shaking, I start typing.

Alix: First off, please don't kill yourself. I can't imagine how much pain you're in . . . but don't, please. Go here, if you want to: translifeline.org. They're way better at this than I am—I'm just a kid on the internet.

I consider just clicking Post; but it doesn't seem like enough. I take a deep breath. What would I want to hear? After staring at the screen for a minute, I put my fingers back on the keys and continue.

I am so sorry your parents reacted that way. And I know this might not make it hurt less, but I have to say thank you for being so brave. You have so much guts to be so honest like that. To say that to your dad. You're probably the bravest person I've ever heard of. If I were with you at the train station right now, I would hug you until you couldn't breathe, and then we would go to the little store and buy root beer and Red Vines, and bite off the ends and use them as straws to drink the root beer while we waited for the train. And then we'd get on and go somewhere very, very far away, like Pennsylvania or Prague. And we would find people like us and live in an apartment and make art and sell it and have a garden on the roof and just be happy.

But I know we can't do that. So I'll just keep writing until I come up with something real that might help.

You have to know that there is NOTHING wrong with you. Your parents' reactions have zero to do with you, and everything to do with them. For you, coming out is
about finally understanding who you are, and then admitting it to the people who are most important to you. But for your parents, maybe they see it as this big, shocking change. And they aren't equipped to handle it. To them, it's like you suddenly made this huge choice they don't understand.

I know what you're thinking: it's not a choice! It's how you were born. It's who you are. You're not making some arbitrary decision to make your life and theirs more difficult—you're just finally accepting who you already are.

But the thing is, you did make a choice: you chose to COME OUT.

You know what's messed up? People tolerate secrecy. I see it in my life. It's like, it's okay to have gay feelings or trans feelings or gender fluid feelings—as long as you keep them inside. As long as you don't “act” on them. Whatever that means. People don't condemn you for being trans. They condemn you for embracing it.

So. See it from your parents' point of view for a second: They're sitting there on the couch, and you come downstairs, and in less than five minutes you turn their world completely upside down. And they didn't have a chance to prepare, so all their bad and ugly feelings rise to the surface. All the worst parts of them just flood out and fill the room and drown your heart.

And the thing is, they probably already wish they could take it all back.

So, anonymous, please don't throw yourself onto that track. Because this is the worst part, right here, right now.
If you can just get past this part, it gets better.

If you're reading this, and you still have battery and signal, go to QueerAlliance.org. I just checked, and they have contact info for shelters and safe houses in almost every major city. There's a hotline you can call. They can help.

We're with you.

I click Post and sit back in my chair. I'm worried that I've said the wrong things, or that I'm too late, and that the anonymous sender has already done something drastic. I wish I had said more. I wish I had been cleverer, more compassionate.

Suddenly tired and out of things to say, I reach for the keyboard to log off. Just then, the envelope icon blinks red again. I click it; there's only one message. It reads:

Anonymous: go back where u came from dyke

r school doesn't need another faggot

I SIT COMPLETELY STILL AND
stare at the screen.

It's like someone slapped me in the face. My pulse doubles. I read the message again.

I don't know what to do.

I look up stupidly at the closed door to my room, as though my father might walk in and
tell
me what to do.

Do I delete the message? Do I report it to someone?

I sit for a moment, waiting for the shock to turn into anger; but instead, a cold fear spreads through me, like ice water in my veins. I sit there, staring at the screen, and then I remember that low, mocking voice:

What she's trying to ask is, are you a
dyke
or are you a
faggot?

Almost the exact words Jim Vickers used two days ago.

I stand and cross to my window to make sure it's locked; it is. I sit back down at the computer.

Could Vickers have found my blog? Has he somehow connected Alix from Bloglr with Solo's friend from school?

Does he know who I am?

My heart palpitates once, twice. If Vickers knew, he could tell everyone. He could post it online, send out a mass email. Everyone would know about me. I couldn't go back to school, not after that. And then—someone could connect the dots to my father. My
congressman
father. His campaign . . . it would be over. His career would be ruined.

Oh God.

I run back to my computer, my heart pounding in my throat. I click Settings and scroll down to “delete user account.” I click the link. A box pops up:

Are you sure you want to delete your account?

My finger hovers over the trackpad. All I have to do is click OK, and Vickers won't be able to expose me. He can tell people about me, sure, but it will be his word against mine.

But if I do it, I'll be giving up the only thing that seems to relieve my anxiety. And on top of that, I'll lose my new friends, all 624 of them. I already hide from my parents, from my classmates—even from Bec and Solo. This blog is the truest part of me. If I delete it, if I erase any record of who I am, what will be left?

I close my eyes, take three slow breaths, and click Cancel. I go back to the inbox screen and open the message one more time.

go back where u came from dyke

r school doesn't need another faggot

Okay. So the sender used “dyke” and “faggot,” the same words Vickers called me in the cafeteria. But how common are those words? They get thrown around every day, in and outside of high school, and certainly all over the internet. Hell, that first anonymous sender called me “fag.” There's nothing here that points specifically to Vickers.

And the second line: “r school doesn't need another faggot.” Not “Park Hills High,” but “r school.” Anyone could have sent this message; it's just an empty threat. Anonymous hate. My panic starts to subside.

I consider replying—and then, almost without deciding to, I delete the message.

I close my laptop and lie back on my bed, but my mind won't shut down. I think about what Solo said, about how I walk around assuming everyone is a bigoted asshole. I try to reconcile his live-and-let-live attitude with the message I just received. I can't.

And then I think about the girl at the train station. About how scary it must have been to tell her parents the truth right to their faces, and how crushed she must have felt when they rejected her. To be cast out by your own parents. And I think about her now, wondering if she read my reply. Wondering whether she's still sitting on that bench, or if she's already thrown herself onto the tracks.

I get very little sleep, and when I walk into school Monday morning, I'm completely exhausted. It's only my second week at Park Hills High, but it already feels like my second year.

I'm feeling super guyish, so I didn't really bother to put
myself together this morning. I'm wearing a baggy T-shirt and the same jeans I wore all weekend—but I did take the time to tease the top of my hair into a fauxhawk.

Solo comments on my scruffy appearance via text, and I reply with a stealthily taken phone pic of my middle finger. When Miss Crane isn't looking, Solo retaliates by bouncing a Starburst off the side of my head.

Bec is absent from Government—again.

The lunch bell rings, and I start across the quad toward the cafeteria. I'm still a little uncertain of where I stand with Solo; sure, he invited me to sit with him, but I think he knew I would refuse. Regardless, I've decided to let it be, for now. To “pick my battles,” as Mom would say.

I descend the stairs and enter the Gauntlet without hesitation. As I approach the football table, I brace myself for an onslaught—but it never comes. Solo gives me a curt nod as I pass, but nobody says a word to me.

And then, just as I'm about to declare victory, Jim Vickers looks up and makes eye contact with me. He smiles, but it doesn't touch his eyes. All at once, the fear from last night—that somehow he knows about my blog, that he'll expose me—comes rushing back, and I look down and walk faster.

Moments later I'm through the Gauntlet and standing in the lunch line. I try to clear my mind, but that cold smile seems to be burned into the backs of my eyelids. Did I see a deeper meaning behind it? An echo of the anonymous hate message from last night? Or was it just my imagination?

I'm disappointed but unsurprised to find the ramp empty; Bec must be traveling with her dad again. I figure I could eat
here alone, or see if Miss Crane is still in her room—but then I look down at my dry cafeteria burrito and decide that I'm just not that hungry. Solo is with his people, Bec is with her dad, and I'm alone on this stupid ramp. By myself. Thinking about being alone by myself.

And for the first time I can remember, I'm actually disgusted by my own self-pity. I hear Doctor Ann's voice in my head, telling me to stop thinking about
me
so much. To get engaged with other people. To find a cause
.
And she's right; I really should do
something.
Reluctantly, I stuff the burrito into my bag and head up toward the activities office.

I'm approaching the counter when the pretty blond girl behind it looks up and says, “
Bonjour,
Riley.”

I stare at her for a minute, caught off guard by the greeting, until I recognize her: it's Casey Reese, the girl who sits in front of me in French. At my lack of response, her smile fades.

“Sorry,” she replies. “Need to work on my accent.”

“No,” I say, too quickly. “No. It's really good.”

Casey's smile returns at full wattage. “I love your hair,” she says, absently reaching up to run her fingers through her own. “How do you make it do that?”

“Oh, I don't know. I just, like, brush it up, sort of, with my hand.” I demonstrate.

She cocks her head. “You don't use hair spray or anything?”

I shrug. “My hair is naturally sticky-uppy. Plus, it's shorter than yours.”

She nods. I think she'll say something else, drive the conversation deeper, but she just sort of spaces out. Finally, I clear my throat. “Um, do you have, like, a list of clubs on campus?”

“Oh. Sure!” She retrieves a green three-ring binder from her desk and sets it in front of me. “They're all in here. Let me know if you need anything else.” She smiles again, then crosses back to her desk and starts sorting through a pile of paperwork.

I stand there at the counter, flipping through club flyers and sign-up sheets. There's a young investors society, an academic decathlon team, and a chapter of the Orange County Teen Republicans Network. I could join the Fellowship of Christian Athletes (if I were an athlete, and if they take deeply conflicted Catholics), but I'm really looking for something more service-oriented. Now I'm halfway through the binder, and what little hope I had is dwindling fast. There's no animal rights club, no vegan teens association, no antibullying coalition. I don't really expect to find a transgender group—and when I do finally come cross the Park Hills Gay-Straight Alliance, I'm unsurprised to see only two names on the sign-up sheet, both dated three years ago.

I'm about to slam the binder shut and walk out of the office when a pink flyer catches my eye.

JOIN “P.A.L.S!”

PEER ACADEMIC ASSISTANCE AT LUNCH!

MONDAYS IN THE LIBRARY

I read it twice, rolling my eyes at the cheesy name. Peer tutoring isn't exciting or political, but it does meet Doctor Ann's requirement of “getting engaged with other people.” Reluctantly, I close the binder, say
au revoir
to Casey, and set off for the library.

I spot Sierra Wells as soon as I walk through the front door. She's sitting at one of the long tables next to the entrance, talking to a younger girl who's stuffing her books into a red backpack. I'm about to turn around and walk out—but then the girl mumbles something, and Sierra replies in a surprisingly gentle tone, “I know,
receive
still trips me up, too. Just remember ‘it's better to
give
than to
receive
.' Both words end in
I-V-E
.” And then her face splits in a wide, genuine smile—this hardly looks or sounds like the same sneering girl who asked if I was a dude or a chick. I pause, half turned toward the door. The younger girl stands, says good-bye to Sierra, and walks past me out the door.

That's when Sierra looks up and sees me—and her smile dissolves.

“Oh,” she says. The gentleness is gone from her tone. “Here.” She reaches into her book bag and extracts a small package wrapped in purple tissue paper. She holds it out to me, and I stare at it. What could she possibly want to give me?

“Your mom ordered these,” Sierra says, thrusting the package at me.

“Oh, right. The essential oils. Thanks,” I say, taking it.

“Yeah,” she replies, then closes her planner and starts packing her things. She's wearing a long-sleeved sweater, but as she reaches down to put her binder away, her sleeve slides up, exposing a scab-like patch of discolored skin on her forearm. I've seen marks like this before, on one of the other patients at Pineview. His were from obsessive scratching; it was the way he dealt with stress. I wonder what Sierra's are from.

I feel a sudden wave of sympathy for her—and I speak without really meaning to. “I'm sorry about the other day,” I
say. “At my house.” Sierra looks up at me, surprised. I'm surprised, too, but I keep talking. “I hate it when my parents use me like a prop.”

Sierra's face takes on a green tinge, and she looks away. “Yeah, well,” she says, shouldering her bag, “whatever.” She stands, pushes in her chair, and walks out.

I watch her leave, feeling stupid for even trying to talk to her. After the way she treated me, what made me think I could change her mind? And why would I bother? I guess it's like Dad says: You only get one chance at a first impression.

When I get home, I find a note from my mom explaining that she and Dad will be out late at some dinner event. I reheat the tofu rice dish she left me and eat it standing in the kitchen.

I consider checking my blog, but decide against it. I have a bad feeling about the trans girl from last night—the one who wrote to me from the train station. I'm afraid of what she might say if she replies. What if she calls me out? Like, what gives me the right to give
her
advice? What experience do I have that could possibly compare to what she's going through?

Or worse, what if something happened, and she hasn't replied at all?

On Tuesday, Mr. Hibbard informs the class that we have a Precalc test on Thursday. It's my least favorite subject, and I haven't done any of the homework. The news sort of derails my day, and I decide I'm definitely not up for lunch in the cafeteria from hell. I intercept Solo as he's walking out of Algebra and persuade him to sneak off campus with me.

Since Bec wasn't in Government, I hold out little hope that she'll turn up at the ramp, but I convince Solo to walk past it on the way to the parking lot anyway. She's not there.

On the way to Shock-o-Tacos, I pick Solo's brain for volunteering ideas.

“My church does a potluck soup kitchen on the first Sunday of every month,” Solo says, shrugging. “Or maybe you could pass out juice at the High School Football Association blood drive.” I could probably get my mom to make a dish for the potluck, but that doesn't qualify as
me
doing something. And the thought of waiting on a room full of Solo's bleeding teammates makes me queasy; I'll have to keep looking.

That night, I sit down at my desk, thinking I'll have the courage to check Bloglr—but when I get to the log-in screen, I stop. Between Mr. Hibbard's looming test and my failed attempts to “find a cause,” the buzz of anxiety has been pretty much constant for the last few days—and the thought of getting another hate message like “go back where u came from dyke” amplifies it even more.

The trans girl from the train station crosses my mind, too—but I push the thought away. I'm already a month behind; I need to study. So I close my laptop and open my Precalc book.

On Wednesday, Bec is absent from Government again, and I'm beginning to think she's not coming back. I shoot her a text, but I get no reply. Still, I'm disappointed when I find the ramp empty. I sit down anyway, and I'm just starting to unwrap my burrito when I hear a familiar voice from behind.

“You're just racking up the tolls, aren't you?”