Not-So-Happy Siblings Day

Trigger warning in effect for child sexual assault and rape.

While I know some people on National Siblings Day have it worse than I do, I think it’s still valid to recognize that I’m in a tough situation when it comes to my siblings.

Well, one sibling.

From left to right: Me, Cassy, and Ray on Ray’s first wedding, 2008.

It’s so interesting to look back on the last decade and see just how bad things got before they came to a head with my brother. It’s interesting because it felt to me like he was given all the opportunities in the world, all the care and attention from our grandparents, all because he shared a name and birthday with my mom’s dad.

I am the youngest of three siblings. My sister, brother, and I all share the same biological mom, but have a biologically different dad. Yet, my dad adopted Cassy and Ray when he and Mom got married, and we were raised as siblings. Nothing ‘half’ about it.

My relationship with my brother was always tense and volatile. He always needed to be right, and therefore I never was, and it infuriated me. He would walk by me and punch me on the arm and make me scream. Mom and Dad told him countless times to stop hitting me, but he still did. And I always thought it was just a brother thing.

Here comes the really serious part - I believed it was also a brother thing when he told me he wanted to have sex with me.

I won’t detail the manipulative things he said to coerce me, or the downright lies he told to make it seem like it was a normal thing that happened between siblings. What I will say is that I will forever be a survivor of sexual assault. And I will forever feel guilt that it took me nearly 20 years to begin to speak out about what he did to me.

I was 12, and he was 16. And it was after that I began to notice all the things he did that made my stomach uneasy. I started hearing stories about my brother. All from girls who had been weirded out by him. This became prevalent in high school when I met several girls who told me they hoped I wasn’t like my brother.

“Yeah, he’s annoying,” I would say. Or, “No, I’m nothing like him.”

It turns out, I was just as annoying as he was, but in different ways. See, he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer when he asked them out. And as my sister and I have talked in these past years, there wasn’t a single girl we knew that Ray didn’t ask out. Both in her grade and mine, and everywhere in between.

Ray at a family birthday party somewhere in the early 2010s.

When I looked at pictures of my brother before, I thought I just saw a really annoying guy. But situations arose as we grew older that made me realize he was not simply annoying. He could be dangerous, to others and to himself.

He and his first wife divorced after a year or so, and both of them said the fight got physical. He said he was just trying to stop her from hitting him. She said she was trying to defend herself.

Some time after, when a girlfriend of his wanted to break up with him, he punched a wall instead of her. Then he said he took a bunch of pills, so she called the police and he went into the psych unit. Cassy and I visited him, and he essentially acted like nothing was wrong.

After he was married a second time, he and his wife got a dog, Chewie. (See my blog post about this story: https://www.chriscolebooks.com/blog/chewies-choice)

When Ray and his second wife decided on divorce, he also became suicidal then. We took him to the emergency room, where he claimed everything was fine. My sister and I looked at each other in shock, but we didn’t say anything.

The next day, he voluntarily committed himself after feeling like he was going to self-harm at his job as a sous chef.

As I was looking for photos, I realized it’s very obvious that my relationship with my brother wasn’t good. We didn’t spend time together (or at least get pictures of our time together) after I got married in 2016. And even at the wedding, I made a choice - my sister was one of two witnesses to sign my marriage license, and one of two people to do a reading.

A photo of Cassy and me outside my apartment.

My sister and I have almost always gotten along. I don’t remember any major fights with her growing up, and only one fight with her as an adult. We see each other every week for a family hangout (obviously made virtual by the pandemic) and now that we’re both vaccinated, we’re looking forward to more time together.

My sister and brother, however, had as strained a relationship as he and I did, but for different reasons. She had a hard time keeping female friends because he wouldn’t leave them alone and stop asking them out.

However, we were raised with the idea that family is family. Blood is thicker than water and all that. So when Ray wanted to marry a former classmate of mine in middle school that I had actually dated, he asked my sister to be a witness.

But when he called me, he asked if I wanted to hang out. I said I was tired and wanted to spend time with my husband. He said okay.

I found out the next day that he’d actually gotten married that night. When I told him I was offended he didn’t invite me, he said he did, but if I didn’t want to hang out with him, that meant I obviously didn’t want to be there to see him get married.

I’m still angry about this, because it is such a clear and deliberate attempt at manipulating me into acting a specific way so he can be assured he has my support.

I spent less and less time with him as we grew up, and when he moved 45 minutes away, it was a nice excuse to see him even less and speak with him even less. He was aware of this, and any time we did speak, he would complain that mom never called him, and when he called her, she complained he never called her. He said a phone works both ways.

I tried to explain that it’s just how we do things in our family. The kids check in with the parents. He said Mom obviously didn’t support him because she always seemed to criticize him. I said she also told me when she thought I was making bad choices, but I actually listened to her advice (sometimes) when he usually did the opposite of what she said, and things usually went to hell.

His third marriage was rough on everyone. This was when he first got in legal trouble for slapping his wife’s six-month-old baby from a previous marriage.

His wife, not wanting to think her husband did it, accused my sister and brother-in-law’s son of hitting the baby. My sister and brother-in-law were called in for questioning the next morning around the same time Ray finally admitted to it.

Well, he didn’t say, “I did it.” He said, “my sister didn’t, my brother-in-law didn’t, my nephew didn’t, and I was the only one there, so I guess it must have been me.” See how that works? He took zero responsibility but claimed all the victimhood.

His third marriage was spent mostly separated from his wife. Until she became pregnant. It seemed like they were going to stay together and have a baby together when the unthinkable happened.

Ray met a girl, they hit it off, and he slept with her. She then revealed she was 16 years old. He continued to engage in sex with her, knowing it was illegal.

Furthermore, he took video and pictures of them having sex, and sent them to a female friend in California.

How he finally got caught? He told on himself to a veterans group member. The member talked to the leader of the group, who contacted law enforcement.

Ray’s mugshot.

My brother’s name was splashed all over the local newspaper. He was on the evening news. News that I used to work for.

https://www.idahostatejournal.com/members/local-veterans-group-member-arrested-for-alleged-sexual-battery-with-teen/article_9c737362-36f5-5ad5-b02a-c4aa596054c6.html

https://www.eastidahonews.com/2019/02/man-sentenced-to-prison-after-bragging-about-rape-of-teen-girl/

Luckily, it seemed like my former coworkers either didn’t know we were related, or knew and didn’t want to reach out to respect my privacy and the privacy of my family. Either way, I’m grateful.

Since he’s been in prison, he’s been determined to place blame at other people’s feet. He blamed my parents for (in his eyes) being abusive growing up. He blamed the girl because she was apparently selling herself online to other guys at the same time she was with him. He blamed his lawyer for not doing a good enough job defending him. He even blamed the guy who turned him in, and said it was absolutely disgusting that he was reveling in it.

Not gonna lie, if I turned in someone for statutory rape, I’d be happy about that as well.

It’s been since 2019 that he’s been in prison. I’ve tried to communicate with him, as has my sister, and our parents. But when his parole hearing came up, it was very obvious he still hadn’t learned anything. We wrote letters. Mine essentially said he needed more help than jail could provide, but he also still felt no guilt about what he’d done. He only felt bad that he was suffering consequences.

I also included a brief description of what he’d done to me when I was 12, and said that I still felt guilty about not saying anything sooner. If I had, perhaps he would have gotten the help he needed.

At his parole hearing, he used language like, “I unfortunately created a victim,” and focused a lot on what he was experiencing in the prison system. He did talk about the programming he was going through, and said he felt ready to rejoin society.

No mention of his son. No mention of the word regret, or sorry, or anything.

It was shortly into his prison sentence that I told him I wanted to be estranged from him. That I felt it was best until he could change. His reply was that we both had to earn trust back. Uh-huh. Sure. He’s still contacted me since then. I didn’t answer when he called.

Things changed again when I finally told my parents what he’d done when I was 12. They came unglued on him.

As it stands now, only my mother will take his calls, and it’s because she simply can’t fathom not talking to one of her children. I’ll never understand the pain she’s gone through with all this.

So, what do you do when you have a sibling who has caused so much pain to so many people, not just in your family? I honestly don’t know. But I know that I celebrate and cherish the relationship I have with my sister.

Cassy and me. I don’t even know where we were when she took this photo.

I love my sister. She works hard, she’s raising two amazing kids, and she married one of the best guys I know. She struggles with her own health, but always tries to make time for family.

Essentially, I feel like we’re a family of four. And I have to say, deep down, that I will always care what happens to my brother. But that doesn’t mean I need any active part in his life. I refuse to let myself be manipulated by him again, or feel lesser than him. It wasn’t until I cut contact that I actually felt more sure of myself, more confident, and less like I was crazy.

So, Happy Siblings Day to both of my siblings. My sister is in my life to remind me of how wonderful it is to have such an amazing friend in a sibling, and how important family can be. My brother is in my life to remind me that no amount of shared blood means I need to put up with abuse, manipulation, and the effects of poor decisions made by someone else.

Kindness IS the Hard Choice

I was recently quite unkind to someone on Facebook. A total stranger who was being unkind to a transgender woman. And, boy, did I do a very good job of making him angry.

First of all, I am a firm believer that people choose their own gender identity. I, a person who identifies as a gay cisgender male, do not get to tell anyone else who they are. I was born with a penis, and therefore have been addressed as a man all my life. I’ve had the luxury of mostly feeling like my insides match my outsides.

Others do not have that in their life. And I do not get to determine otherwise for them. I don’t get to walk up to someone wearing a specific type of clothing and tell them they are a man or a woman. I don’t get to tell nonbinary people they have to ‘pick one,’ like the local leader of a queer advocacy agency told me bisexual people need to do. (That subject is another blog post entirely).

I firmly believe that gender is different than genitals. This obviously isn’t how it used to be, where penis meant boy and vagina meant girl. It’s very recent, and it can be scary and confusing for people. I don’t know that I fully understand it myself.

But I don’t need to understand in order to accept.

I don’t understand what it’s like to be shot, or stabbed, or have my nose bitten off in a bar fight (Idaho is basically Florida, but upside-down). But that doesn’t mean I’m going to tell them that, because I haven’t experienced it, their experience doesn’t matter. That it’s somehow not real, or not valid.

I don’t understand what it’s like to be a mother. But I’m sure as hell not going to tell a mother any experience she has is just a fluke, or try to offer her advice on how she can do better. That would be presumptuous.

What I will do, apparently, is think it’s a good idea to give some jerk on Facebook a taste of his own medicine. (Spoiler alert: THIS DOES NOT WORK).

So, Dr. Rachel Levine is a transgender woman. That is her fact and her truth, and I am not going to take that away from her. I can’t. Furthermore, I don’t want to. I want her to be happy. I basically want everyone to be happy, unless their happiness comes in the form of making others miserable, or poor, or dead. In which case, fuck their happiness.

I want to make it clear this is all my fault for following national news on Facebook. I don’t after this incident, as I’m really done dealing with awful people I don’t know. I have a fantastic community of support in my Facebook friends, and I don’t need to ugly it up by giving recognition to hate.

So, I comment on the post about Dr. Levine being appointed by President Joe Biden, and say something along the lines of, “I’m happy for her, and I’m sorry she has to deal with so much hate.”

The comments I got in reply all focused on the following two thoughts: “You mean IT,” and, “he’s a man in a dress.”

First of all, it is incredibly dehumanizing to not even recognize a person’s humanity. It is bullying, and it’s hate speech, in my opinion. (Facebook doesn’t think so, but whatever).

As for the second comment, I began referring to the men who commented with this statement as women. “Okay, ma’am.”

I lost my cool. I took ugly things that men have said about women and posted them as though I believed them, though I was being facetious the whole time. That doesn’t make it okay. To any woman who read those comments, I am sorry. I absolutely did not mean those things. I should not have used degrading language to women to try and make my point.

But I did. He got upset, and I used the deplorable line of, “Calm down, lady. You must be on your period.” He called me ignorant, and I told him I was smarter than him because I was a man. Typing those things made me sick, and it makes me sick to repeat them now.

But I totally recognize the thing that makes me the sickest about all of this is that it caused me trouble. See, I had forgotten to make my employer private on Facebook. And he looked at my profile, saw one of the jobs where I work, and said he was composing a letter and including screenshots of the disgusting comments I was sending.

I’m a marketing assistant. I hope to do more than that one day. But I became completely terrified (and I still am slightly afraid) that I’m going to lose my job because of those comments. Taken out of context, I sound misogynistic. I am aware. I was saying misogynistic things.

I commented twice more, still trying desperately to maintain my self-perceived high ground. I said I was sorry he felt so bad that I turned his type of language around on him, then commented again to make it clear that I did not mean the horrible things I said, but that I was using that language to make a point.

I reported his comments as bullying, and was shocked that Facebook removed some of them. They didn’t remove the one where he was threatening to get me fired, however. Because that’s okay, but calling a man ignorant is not. Especially a white man. (If you haven’t noticed, I’m highly unimpressed with Facebook’s choices when it comes to comments made on their platform).

The thing that pissed me off the most was that, when I went to my husband for support, he handed my ass back to me with a single, infuriating question: “Wouldn’t it have been easier to be kind instead?”

“Oh, fuck off,” I thought to myself. You, the man I love, sitting there on your moral high ground, judging me and feeling all superior because you’ve never been a sassy bitch to anyone on Twitter. (Don’t worry, I’ve talked this out with him, and I used much kinder language).

But my first reaction of defensiveness told me all I needed to know. I knew I was wrong. So very much in the wrong. But I had made the easy choice to be an asshole, to stoop to some guy’s level and resort to name-calling and a, ‘See, I told you,’ complex.

My husband later clarified with me that he wasn’t telling me I should have been kind in the first place, but actually that I should stop poking the angry bear. I realized that the bear was attacking Dr. Levine, and all I did, instead of trying to drive it away or make it stop, was make it attack me instead.

Usually, I’m okay with this. Go ahead and attack me instead. I’m sick of trans people always being attacked for simply existing. I can take the attacks. At least, I thought I could.

But I had to stop myself. I wouldn’t have been attacked in the first place if I hadn’t responded to the comments. I wouldn’t be in a place where I’m scared to lose my job because I wouldn’t have made someone angry and vengeful enough to send a letter to my employer. Maybe this guy has, or maybe he’s full of empty threats. I don’t know.

And honestly, my first instinct was to apologize to him. But, I can apologize for what I said and the harm it caused others while not feeling sorry that I confronted him. I could have gone about it in a better way, and still held him accountable for his hate.

I consider myself an activist and a social justice warrior. I wear those words with pride. But every warrior needs a reminder of what they’re fighting for. And this was a key reminder that I’m not fighting to change people’s hearts and minds. If I specifically try to tell someone to think differently, it’s not going to work. I can certainly say, “Well, this is how I see it,” and simply offer my perspective. I’ve seen that approach have a much higher success rate of people taking me seriously and considering what I say.

Why? Because I’m not attacking them. I don’t have to call someone stupid to try and make them see things from my point of view. I don’t have to tell them the labels of homophobe, transphobe, or bigot apply to them in order to tell them, “Hm, I usually think about it like this.”

See, this second approach is much harder for me. Much more difficult. This is hard for me to admit, because I’ve always thought I was a kind person who simply wanted to pass on knowledge. Yet, here I am, saying that kindness and expressing an alternate perspective is difficult for me.

It’s easy to call someone a transphobe and dismiss their views. It’s harder to show that person the humanity they’re denying someone else by having a conversation with them.

It won’t work for everyone. You can’t change every person’s mind, nor should you assume that your perspective is the one they need to change theirs to. My take is that calling a trans woman a woman does me no harm, and it does her good.

I don’t have the answers for everything. I know there are feminists out there who want a penis-free space, and that’s why they exclude trans women with penises. But I side with many of my female friends who say that gender is not a vagina or penis, and that when a trans woman finds her identity, she should have a community of women to embrace her.

I also know there are people who are all up-in-arms about trans people using public restrooms. Sometimes, trans people have to empty their bladders, and they can’t always rush home to do it. So, they need to use a public restroom. I can definitely say that any person who puts on a dress to go rape little children in a bathroom is not a trans person. They are a pedophile and a rapist. A trans person looking to pee very likely doesn’t want to be in that bathroom any more than a transphobe wants them in that bathroom.

Trans people are more likely to be murdered, especially trans women of color. Trans people are more likely to complete suicide. Their life expectancy is between 30-35 years old. To some frankly evil people, this is fine. To me, it’s evil to not care.

So I’m going to continue to advocate. I just need to remember to do it in a way that doesn’t destroy me. Because I want to be there for the future I believe we’ll see, and that we’re already seeing in some parts of the world. Peace and human rights are advancing all over the world, and I want to stand for freedom, beauty, truth, and love. People have the freedom to be whatever gender they want to be. They are beautiful inside and out for being so brave. They are living their truth. And their truth is love.

I want to be remembered for my empathy and kindness. That’s the truth I want to live. I don’t expect other queer people to take this on as well. All I will say is that, in my experience, meeting hate with hate only breeds more hate. But meeting hate with empathy and kindness at least puts that out into the world, and it doesn’t corrupt you. I have to preserve myself so I can, in turn, try to help others. Because that’s the person I want to be. And I have to remember to make the hard choice every day to rise above the hate and live a life of love.

To all trans people: I see you, I am with you, and I love you.

This is a Shitty Post

Let’s talk shit. Poop. Bowel movements. Bathroom habits. The Brown Fairy (Nobody calls it that, please don’t.) It’s not talked about enough, and I’m not shy. Well, at least, not that shy.

Since Sunday, March 7th, I have been taking a darling little pill called Linzess. Small, white capsule. Harmless looking. The doctor said it would encourage me to poop daily in prep for my colonoscopy on Monday the 15th.

Since that time, all I have been doing is sitting at my computer waiting for - oh shit, brb.

*Toilet flushes. Oh wait, now the toilet is flushing. The previous sound was pooping.*

Anyway, I’ve been having to rush off to the bathroom as my bowels go from, “Hey, just a heads up, in a little while, you’ll want to visit the restroom,” to, “YOU ARE POOPING IN 5 SECONDS WHETHER YOU’RE IN A BATHROOM OR NOT, BITCH!”

It’s been a lovely experience of trying to determine how well I can clench my cheeks to stop from having an accident. I thought I had better control than I actually did, and poor little naïve me shit my pants. Twice.

So, here I sit, on a towel on the couch with several layers of clothes between me and the couch. And I am dreading my appointment on Monday.

The reason I need the appointment in the first place is… ugh, hold on.

*Cue Niagra Falls sound coming from the bathroom.*

Okay. So, now the toilet handle is broken. Maybe it’s been meaning to happen for a while now, but the timing is suspicious. Have I really been pooping so much I broke the toilet?

Anyway. The reason I made the appointment. I was having irregular bowel movements. Sometimes I’d go four or five times a day. Sometimes I’d go four or five days until it was actually painful.

I didn’t change my diet or anything, so I figured it was something else. I mean, my diet’s not spectacular by any stretch of the imagination, but I eat food and drink soda on a fairly regular basis.

The other factor in deciding to see a doctor was that I had a family history of issues. Colon cancer, colon polyps, diverticulitis, irritable bowel syndrome, and so much more.

Talking to the doctor was not as horrible as I thought it would be. Again, I’m not a person to shy away from the facts of a situation. Talking with this woman (who was clearly ready to pop out a baby) about my bowel consistency, frequency, size, color, etc. was not traumatizing at all. In fact, the worst part was when she had to put her hands on my flabby tummy and press around to see if I was having any weird pains.

See, I may be able to talk about vulnerable things, but actually being vulnerable is quite different.

I’m not exposed physically very often. People who know me probably can’t even recall a time they’ve seen me wearing shorts, let alone pictures of me just in a swimsuit. Because I don’t go swimming and I don’t wear shorts. I’ve got weird body issues, and I know I need to address them. So, here I am, thinking the worst part of this whole colonoscopy crusade is going to be baring my ass for a few medical professionals.

Of course, I knew I had to do the liquid as well. it’s four o’clock Sunday afternoon, and I’m playing Dungeons and Dragons with online friends because, damn it, I want to play. But I drank the liquid that’s supposed to give me a royal flush while I was in the middle of a battle.

I thought I was prepared for this, given all the pooping this past week. But I’ve got to tell you, that stuff is legitimately the worst tasting stuff I’ve ever had in my entire life. It seriously almost made me vomit. Like, mouth-watering, “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” type of concern as I hunch over the toilet just in case, leaving my DnD comrades wondering where I was in the middle of battle. But, I was able to hold it together.

This poop came on a lot faster than any previous poop on the pills. And boy, did it work. After several movements, my poop was basically water. Which I think is what they’re going for.

I went to bed Sunday just before nine o’clock to try and get some sleep and take my mind off of my growling tummy (no solid foods). And I was promptly awake at midnight and every hour after until five o’clock rolled around. At 5:30, I had to start the second bottle of Suprep.

Is it just me, or is it a missed opportunity to call this stuff Puprep? Just saying.

I handled the second bottle much better than the first. I plugged my nose before I started drinking everything, and I drank it all in one chug. But as soon as I un-plugged my nose, the full taste hit me. Luckily, I’d thought ahead, and had Sprite on hand, the sweetness overpowering the pure YUCK. I only gagged once.

So, now, I prep for my appointment at 9:30 (have to be there by 8:30), and I have to say, it’s not hitting me that I’m going to be really vulnerable both before, during, and after. And I don’t think Trent can sit in the waiting room with me, as they have signs saying ‘patient pickup/dropoff’ at the front of the building. I’m really going to be dependent on Trent to help me get home.

I’m totally good being vulnerable with him, it’s the doctors I’m worried about. My grandma was only about ten years older than me when she had 20 feet of her intestines removed due to cancer. While my logical brain is telling me it’s probably just going to be Irritable Bowel Syndrome, and maybe a few polyps, the creative side of my brain is doing a really good job coming up with all the life-ruining scenarios that can happen.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Apparently, they’re going to tell me… sigh. Hold on.

You know that sound that happens when you dump soup in the toilet? That’s the sound.

Anyway, they’re going to tell me the results while I’m still recovering from the anesthesia, so I’m not sure what I’m going to remember.

At least I’m wearing the right shirt for the occasion.

My Randy Rainbow shirt took on a whole new meaning this week.

The Colonoscopy

That weeklong buildup was for that? Okay, yeah, the prep was the absolute worst part of this whole experience.

Honestly, even getting naked wasn’t as bad as I feared. The gown was big enough that it covered me completely - though I thought it was rather low in the front, revealing my goodies for them all to see.

The nurse who did my IV had a heck of a time getting my vein in my hand to cooperate, and I think the term she used was ‘positional.’ I refrained from making any jokes about my sex life.

Then, I sat for a good chunk of time, messaging my family and sending them pictures like this just to freak them out.

Again, the fear in my eyes is more just apprehension than actual fear.

My procedure was supposed to be at 9:30, but they ended up wheeling me back into the room at 10:04. The nurse had me verify the basics: who I was, when I was born, and what I was doing there.

“Chris Cole, {birthdate}, and I’m here for a colonoscopy.”

They had me scoot up on the bed and laid me back down, plugging in all my tubes and wires (including the little oxygen dispenser in my nostrils), and had me turn on my side. I was laying there and felt a slight coldness in my hand, which told me the anesthesia drip was now entering my body.

Me in slow motion: “I think it’s taking effect…”

And I woke up later, still on my side, back in the room I started in. I still had the little heartbeat monitor on my finger. As I fiddled with it, I realized I was a little wet… back there.

Oh God, am I bleeding? *Checks* Just residual liquid poop. But I was still a little under the influence of anesthesia, so I told the unfamiliar nurse who came in, “There’s a little mess.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “You ready to get dressed and go home?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Are you ready for me to be ready?” I’d literally woken up maybe five minutes before this.

Turns out, Trent was already waiting outside. I told them he was going to come in my pretty blue car. Instead, he drove his car, which is silver and not as pretty as mine. I told the nurse so as she helped from the curb and into the car.

“Okay,” she said soothingly. Then, we were off.

I don’t remember much of the conversation in the car, but I remember I suddenly realized how hungry I was, and demanded we stop for a cheeseburger.

“There’s oatmeal at home,” Trent offered. “Something maybe a little easier on your stomach?”

“I haven’t eaten food since Saturday evening,” I replied forcefully. “I want. A. Cheeseburger.”

Trent, knowing full well it was a bad idea, got me the cheeseburger. We got home to a dog that was grateful to see both of us, and I chomped the whole thing down.

I, one minute later, said, “I think the burger was a bad idea.”

Trent, eye twitching, slightly explodes and then reels it back in. But, I lean in and give him a kiss, then decide it’s time for bed.

So now I sit, six hours after being knocked out and probed, writing about the whole experience. And I’ve got to say, the fact that they didn’t find anything makes me really unhappy. Not even a little polyp? But, then why are all my poops at irregular times? Maybe it’s like they said - Irritable Bowel Syndrome? I don’t have any follow-up appointments scheduled, so I wonder if they thought I was just wasting their time.

I did learn that people 40-50 years old are seeing higher instances of colon cancer, and I overheard the nurse say that she knows someone who died of colon cancer at 51 because they caught it too late. She also said her mom died of it. No wonder she works where she does.

But now, I move on to normal life happenings and events. I’ve got other things to focus on, and that definitely includes ways to make my bowel movements normal. Adjusting my eating habits and fiber intake will definitely help. I even got a pamphlet from the doctor about high-fiber diets.

I obviously didn’t look at it before screaming for cheeseburgers.

The moral of this whole story? Shit happens, but when it’s not normal, it’s best to get that shit taken care of.

Am I Wigging Out?

Let me just make this clear: I’m bald.

It didn’t happen suddenly. I started losing my hair right after high school. If I had been paying attention, I probably would have noticed it in high school as well.

But, it wasn’t until I started working for the TV news that I did a standup (filmed myself to explain information for part of the story) and saw what was going on. I turned around in the standup and saw the back of my head through my hair.

My first reaction was horror, quickly followed by denial. My dad had thin hair in the back, but he was in his 40s and still had hair. I was going to be fine.

Ha. Funny story - if your Mom’s dad is bald, you can pretty much guarantee you’re going to be bald as well.

I was about 25 when I first started trying hair-saving strategies. Those special hair mousses were supposed to lift and revitalize thinning hair, providing volume and luscious locks for days. Yeah, no. My hair stayed thin and frail-looking. I tried hair growth pills and gels. Nothing worked. Honestly, it was likely because I didn’t use them consistently. Cue me in the bathroom looking in the mirror and complaining, “But I used it for a week! Why isn’t my hair down to my knees?”

Finally, I thought I was brilliant and began cutting my hair so it was super short on the sides and back. That meant it would look thicker on top! The picture below tells me I was wildly misleading myself.

Finally, along with my husband Trent’s help, I began to accept the fact that I was one day going to have to shave my head. And that day was rapidly approaching. Luckily, I decided to go even shorter on the sides and grow my hair out on top and just pile it all on there to make one final, desperate stand.

I found out my hair curled in humid climates on my honeymoon, and I tried to get it to remember that. I don’t think it worked out very well.

Finally, the day came. It was a random Wednesday in October 2020. I had showered, hair falling out in my hands as I gingerly tried to shampoo and condition what was left. Then, I dried my hair and found more on the towel. When I ran my hand through my hair and it came away with several dark strands, I realized I’d had enough. I looked up in the mirror and made the decision.

I grabbed the trimmer that I used for precision on the sides of my head and didn’t give myself an out. I buzzed straight down the middle of my head and promptly screamed. Trent called out from the bedroom to ask if I was okay, and I promptly lied with, “Fine!”

I continued buzzing, and as I did, I realized just how little hair I had left. It came out in three rather small clumps. Then, I took my electric razor and shaved the rest down. Finally, I grabbed Trent’s 3-blade shaver and went against the grain, making it as smooth as possible.

I stood back to admire my work. I was… surprised. Pleasantly surprised. I had assumed I was going to have scars and scrapes, odd lumps, and other deformities from when I was a kid. But there was… nothing. My head was smooth and fairly round and… it looked good.

Trent also thought so too, as he stepped into the bathroom and his eyes widened with a big grin on his face. Of course, for dramatic effect, I had to send the following picture to my family.

So, for a few months, I went around being bald, but I missed my hair. Not because I wasn’t comfortable being bald, but because I wasn’t going to be able to do the things I wanted to do with my hair. I wanted to do a man bun, and a ponytail, and a half-ponytail or whatever they’re called. I wanted long hair on the top and short hair on the sides. And I wanted to color my hair.

So, I began to look into wigs, and by golly did I find some.

First, I bought two men’s wigs, because clearly as a man I can only buy hair made for men, and presumably by men. Eyeroll.

The two I got were… meh. One was better once I took them to a professional stylist, though. The curly one was supposed to drape dramatically in front of my face, but instead looked like I was trying to wear an afro. It’s still sitting on the floorboard in the backseat of my car. The second one looks pretty good if I wear a winter hat with it. But both of them were disappointing because they weren’t what I was looking for.

So I started shopping for women’s wigs, and have found three really great ones: Thor, Turner, and Rachel. Thor, because I feel like Thor when I pull my hair back like he did in a couple of the movies, Turner after Will Turner in the Pirates movies, and Rachel is what I feel like is a modern-looking take on Rachel from Friends.

So far, I’m happy with these three options. The men’s wigs I’m finding advertised to me show that they’re really high quality and natural-looking, but then they’re only $20. When it comes to hair, paying more usually means higher quality and more realistic.

Naturally, when I’m wearing a wig, some people can tell. And if they know I’m bald, they’ll ask why I’m wearing it. The answer is simple: I like hair, I just can’t grow it myself anymore.

At least, not on my head. I’ll spare you the details of my ear hair-plucking regimen, and my fight with these two stupid hairs that are growing out of a mole on my shoulder.

So, for the people who are looking with pity on bald people who own and wear wigs, not everyone is trying to hide the fact they’re bald. Some of us just like hair. We just can’t grow it ourselves.

The Author Rejection

Any writer who has ever submitted something to be published has been rejected. And we’ve all heard the story about JK Rowling getting rejected a whole SIX times before she finally was picked up by a traditional publisher.

Fuck that TERF, by the way.

But to be rejected only six times? How lucky is she? In fact, the majority of authors I know have been rejected dozens upon dozens, up to and beyond hundreds of times. And that includes me.

Specifically, my science fiction book has been rejected (if I’ve kept a running total correctly) 86 times. Honestly, it feels like my book has been 86’d from the Book Bar at this point.

Almost all of those rejections have been standard rejections. A few said they liked my work, but they just couldn’t fully get behind it like they knew they would need to.

This latest one, though, was kind enough to reply after saying they were worried about copyright. I was like… the material is original. I own it. And with the reply came this stunning realization: I had included names of celebrity and famous fictional characters in my book. I’d thought I was safe, as I wasn’t saying anything bad.

They don’t even want to go near it. So me - still hopeful - asks if I could resubmit if I changed those names and references.

Turns out, I can, but that the names weren’t the only reason. There were many factors in my rejection.

I am truly grateful the person took the time to reply to my emails. It will make my book better. And it will give me time to really narrow down what I want to say with it.

It holds a special place in my heart, as it was the first book I ever wrote and, to this day, is the second-most daunting undertaking I’ve conceived of. But loving my work isn’t enough. Just like if I were to make brownies. I may love brownies, but it doesn’t mean they’ll be good or that other people will enjoy them.

However, this has definitely changed the way I look at my books. I set my sci-fi trilogy down several years ago, thinking I’d visit it again once I got better at writing and had possibly made a name for myself.

Well, there’s no time like the present. I’ve published since I wrote the books, and that means I have a platform that may accept them. It would be wonderful if, one day, my trilogy (and the supplement novellas I’ve written to go with it) lined my bookshelves. And I actually feel more confident that they will be on my bookshelf the more I improve my art.

But right now, I’m just a boy, sitting in front of a computer screen, screaming, “WHY DON’T YOU LIKE ME?!”

It’s hard not to take rejection personally. You put so much of yourself, your time, your energy, your very soul into your books, only to have some rando in some big city go, ‘Nah.,’ and move on to a ton of other books whose authors are going to hear the same thing.

And the vicious cycle continues.

Maybe I’ll see about going through the Indie publisher who published my first two books. I’m not a fan of their generic formatting, but I get a say in the cover. It’s not in their wheelhouse, though, so I should look into other indie publishers and submit there.

I don’t want to self-publish if I can help it. But I may end up having to do so. People who self-publish usually prefer the control they have over their project, and maybe I would as well. I’d get printed copies of all my books in the trilogy, including the five supplements between books two and three.

But I’d have to pay a cover artist, and I definitely don’t have the $150-2$50 I’ve been quoted in the past. Maybe I will in the future, however. And as for all the formatting that goes into the book, I’m just leery. Probably because I’m afraid I’ll mess it up.

I don’t want fear to hold me in place. I’ve let fear do that to me for too long. And the fear of rejection is what made me set aside my trilogy in the first place. That, and the third book is in need of about 30,000 more words to match the high 80,000 word count that my previous two books were. Bah, logistics.

So. What have I learned from this most recent rejection? That it’s an opportunity for me to improve my work, that it still most definitely hurts, and that it’s a natural part of wanting to be a published author through a publishing company.

I know a lot of people have been where I am, and a lot of other people are going to be here after me. The best I can say is to let it drive you to make your book even better. But also remember there are other ways to publish. Indie publishers are totally a thing, and I’m quite happy with mine - especially now that they’re getting around to printed copies of books after the pandemic has begun to settle.

So, don’t let your fear of rejection rule you. You’re going to be rejected. And it’s going to hurt. But living your life afraid of the rejection that’s definitely going to be coming your way is not a way to live. You - and your book - deserve better.

And with that, I’m going to go work on the first book of my trilogy some more. And if I need to cry, I’ll do that, too. But I’ll always go back to writing. Because, through all the rejection and pain and hard work and frustration and agony, I absolutely love doing it. And if you love what you’re doing, don’t stop doing it.

Or, in the words of one of my favorite starship captains: “Never give up, never surrender.”

The (In My Opinion) Myth of 'Just Write'

I am a firm believer in writer’s block and have experienced it myself multiple times. I’ve also experienced the concept of ‘just write,’ where you’re supposed to write even if you have no idea what to say.

I’m here to provide my expert opinion (haha) that ‘just write’ can actually waste your time and make your writing worse. I’m also here to say that I used to say ‘just write’ to my writer friends all the time, thinking they were stuck simply because they weren’t writing enough.

I can see why people think ‘just write’ would be beneficial. Maybe, once you start writing, your creative juices will start flowing and you’ll do good work. Maybe if you ‘just write’ you’ll actually come up with something good. Maybe if you ’just write’ you’ll get done with your work faster because you didn’t take the time to rejuvenate your creativity.

That’s a whole lot of maybe.

I haven’t seen evidence that forcing yourself to sit down and write leads to anything quality. Personally, anyway. Maybe this works for other writers, and maybe there is evidence that it does work. If there is, awesome.

It’s still not a guarantee for quality writing.

Case in point: the third book of my sci-fi trilogy. (The first book is currently being looked at by a publisher - fingers crossed!) I made it through the first chapter exactly how I wanted to. It’s tragic. I hope it makes people cry and makes people mad at me because they care so much. You know, the standard joy that writers seek. Sadistic fucks that we are.

But when I started chapter two, I blanched. I didn’t know where I was going. I had point A done, and I knew how point Z looked, but I still had the other 24 points to touch before I got there. But, I’d gotten the advice to ‘just write,’ and so I did.

As I wrote, my sense of disgust at what I was doing rose. By the time I hit chapter 8, about 26,000 words later, I realized how I actually wanted things to go. And I had to start over at Chapter 2.

I still have the document of my ‘just write’ material. And this was from about 5 years ago, so bear in mind that my writing has improved a lot since that time. I’d include examples, but they’d all be spoilers. Let’s just say there’s a lot of the word ‘just',’ my clutch word.

I just wish I could just stop using just. I just can’t.

Anyway, I totally went in a different direction restarting chapter two, only this time I’d lost precious time writing a bunch of stuff I wasn’t going to use.

That being said, I know I still have work to do on that book. It’s about 30,000 words short of where I want it to be. I should focus on the character development rather than the action that’s taking place.

Now that the first book of this proposed trilogy is being looked at by a publisher, I’m experiencing a sense of working with a deadline. I have no deadline in place of course, but I want to have a completed product to submit if/when the time comes. And right now, it’s not complete.

But it’s been years since I looked at it properly, so I will be going in with fresh eyes and a more experienced perspective. This is why I think it’s so important for some people to put their work aside, work on another project or simply refresh some other way, and come back to it later.

I see so many authors pushing themselves on deadlines they create for themselves, and I just don’t get it. I mean, I want all my books published, but I am also pacing myself because writing is not my full-time gig. And I don’t ever expect it to be. If I make enough money to live off of the rest of my life, great! I’ll still work a bit and volunteer and write.

I’ve written a total of 18 books, and only two of them are published. And I’m totally good with that because I have the option to continue to improve my writing and my previous work until it’s ready for publication.

I give myself the time I need to feel creative and really connect with the work in front of me. I don’t want to push myself to ‘just write,’ when I’ve already experienced the negative repercussions.

So, write, but not just to write. Write when you’re inspired and feeling connected to your work. And if someone tells you writer’s block doesn’t exist, simply smile and move on, knowing they’re one of those lucky people that either never experience it or has yet to experience it.

Write on, my fellow writers. On your own time, and in your own way.

Chewie's Choice

A content warning is in effect for this blog post in regards to animal abuse.

---

I’ve been working on a personal essay about my relationship to my brother. Not a relationship with, as we no longer have one. And while there are many issues to address regarding my brother, one issue that always sticks out to me is his abuse of animals. Particularly, of his former dog, Chewie (Chewbacca).

Chewie with his precious Greenie at my sister’s house on one of our normal Friday night visits.

Chewie was originally purchased from a local pet store that doesn’t have a great reputation for healthy dogs. In fact, in my family, we prefer to get our dogs at the animal shelter, because they’re better-taken care of there.

Not my brother. Ray and his second wife purchased a little brown fluffball at this local pet store, probably dropping several hundred dollars for a Schnauzer/Shih Tzu mix.

That’s right. The platinum blonde dog you see above and below used to be dark brown and look like a little Wookie, hence the name. Apparently, he decided blondes have more fun and has never looked back.

Unfortunately for him, his adorable underbite and big, trusting eyes were not enough to spare him from my brother’s cruelty.

The extent of my cruelty: taking pictures of him when he just wants to sleep.

My brother has a history of abusing animals. Growing up, we had a black lab mix named Mouse. She was a black fluffball as a puppy, then her hair went sleek as she grew into a lanky gorgeous dog.

Mouse was the first dog that ever had to deal with my brother’s abuse. He would constantly be in her face, never knowing when enough was enough for her. In fact, the picture below is a perfect example of just how close he would be to her all the time, pulling on her feet, slamming her to the ground, and flipping her over on her back, like big dogs absolutely love.

(For anyone who doesn’t own a big dog, they absolutely do not love being forced on their backs.)

Mouse and I playing in the backyard. I’m holding a ball just next to the camera. Didn’t she have such pretty eyes?

All this abuse from my brother resulted in Mouse biting him in the face. And my parents were faced with the possibility of putting her to sleep because my brother did not listen to their endless warnings about leaving her alone.

Fortunately for Mouse, Ray moved out and she only had to endure him on his rare visits.

Several years later, after Ray had divorced and remarried, Chewie came into the picture.

We all were immediately nervous about him owning a dog, and we were even more surprised when he got Chewie certified as an Emotional Support Animal. The reason we were surprised is that Chewie did everything in his power to avoid my brother. He would hide under tables, run away into a corner, then cower like he was going to get hurt.

I was not the only one to witness my brother’s abuse. Ray would pick Chewie up with one hand, holding him by his front paws while Chewie yelped and cried, biting at Ray’s hand to try and stop him. And if Chewie bit too hard, Ray would yell at him in a big, scary voice.

Ray would sneak up on the sleeping dog and scream in his face to wake him up, then grab him and hold him to try and provide him comfort. He also used the screaming technique to wake up his third ex-wife’s six-month-old baby (A whole other story).

In 2018 and 2019 when my brother was going through his sentencing for statutory rape (Another completely different story), Ray and I talked about Chewie’s future if he were to go to prison. And Ray told me that, if he went to prison, he would let me have Chewie and would not ask for him back.

Chewie and Trent chilling on the grass at a local field where leashes aren’t required.

When Ray was first in jail after he was charged, Chewie stayed with us for about two weeks. During that time, it became obvious that he was suffering from PTSD. I dropped something on the floor across the room from him, and he skittered away into the bedroom, absolutely terrified.

A slamming door, loud footsteps from the apartment upstairs, or even unexpected noise from a cell phone all made him jump and pin his ears back to his head. I would interpret his reactions as, “Oh God, what’s going to happen to me now?” if he could talk. Trent and I both knew that he was not okay.

When my brother was released to await his sentencing, he said he was surprised I hadn’t brought Chewie with me. I said I didn’t want to mess with him any more than necessary, and I offered to watch him until the sentencing came around.

My brother snapped at me, telling me to stop keeping his dog from him and to ‘give him back his property.’ I got back in my car and drove away while he was in mid-sentence, not offering him a ride home. He called me later to apologize for being angry.

It was too painful for me to give Chewie back to him, knowing what kind of home he was going to. So I made Trent do it. It was selfish of me to do that to my husband, and he told me so, but he drove the hour to give him back ‘his property.’ (Insert vomit emoji here).

A few months later, the time came, and Ray was sentenced to either 12 of 14 years in prison (I can’t remember exactly), with two-and-a-half years fixed. My sister - whom he had discussed using as his power of attorney - and I went to his apartment and picked up Chewie, who was a neurotic and physical mess.

I don’t know about the history of his vet visits, but I do know they were rare. As we drove home, I noted that his toenails were so long they were curling under his little feet, and he had matted fur all over his body. He looked shabby, to say the least. And the poor guy was very nervous about what was happening, as Ray was the only stable thing in the seven years of his life.

Chewie and his new friend at my mother and father-in-law’s house on a Sunday visit. This is during the winter, when we let his hair grow a little longer.

When we arrived back in town, my husband and I immediately took action. My sister owns a dog grooming shop, and we got him groomed, which included trimming his nails and generally assessing his health.

My sister informed us that it was clear he wasn’t used to being groomed, and that any touch could possibly cause pain. He freaked out when my sister tried to trim his front toenails and wanted her nowhere near his face.

That was the start of Trent and I owning our first dog. And what a transforming effect it has had on all of us.

Chewie is whining in this picture after his recent visit to the vet, where they had to sedate him.

I was inspired to write this blog after we took Chewie to the vet to get his first-ever teeth cleaning. He had to have two teeth pulled, and was still delirious from the sedation when we picked him up. Trent held him the whole way home. And the whole time Trent held Chewie, our pupper looked at him with confusion about what was happening, but trust that he was in good hands.

Unfortunately, Trent had to go back to work. So, he handed Chewie to me. And we watched through our front window as Trent drove away. As soon as Trent was gone, Chewie wanted out of my arms and far away from me.

Maybe he just didn’t want someone messing with him. He went and laid down in one of his three beds (we just want him to be comfortable wherever we are). I tried to keep him company by laying down next to him, but he wasn’t having any of it. He moved away into the living room, dragging his feet as he did so.

It was then I realized that, no matter what I did or didn’t do, I reminded him of my brother. And since my brother abused him, he associates me with that abuse.

When we sleep, he’ll lay snuggled up against my legs. When Trent and I are sitting on the couch, he’ll jump up between us and lean against me. When we take him for walks, he listens to me and will even sometimes play with a stick. But I’m not Trent.

Now, before this turns into a pity party, I want to make it clear that I mostly feel bad because my presence reminds him he was abused by someone like me. The smaller part of me that is sad reasons that I have never hurt him, so he should know not to be afraid of me or dislike me. Picture me on the floor in front of him, crying, “Why don’t you like me?!” (Which I have never done).

Trent would argue that he loves me. And I think that he does. But he also loved my brother. Because my brother, while being his only source of strife and pain, was also his only source of comfort.

I wanted Chewie out of that abusive household, and I worked hard to get him away. Trent also wanted Chewie away from my brother. And Chewie is going to stay with us until he breathes his last breath. And we’re going to be with him for that, because we both love him.

Trent and I have multiple photos of Chewie waiting for one of us on the back of the couch.

Growing up, my parents always said that Mouse was Mom’s dog and Sadie, our little corgi mix (pictured below), was also a momma’s girl. When I first met Chewie, I felt like something clicked between us, and I knew that he was destined to be mine. We had similar personalities, and I knew I could take better care of him than my brother did.

But Chewie is not my dog. Chewie is Trent’s dog. And I have to learn to be okay with that.

I even told Chewie once, “I’m not Ray, you know.” And I could swear he understood what I was saying. But here I sit, typing away while Chewie lays on the back of the couch, waiting for Trent to get home. If I move into another room, he won’t follow me when Trent’s gone. I don’t know what he does when I’m gone. Maybe the same thing.

Chewie is the first pet I’ve ever had that I wanted to be mine. And he’s not. And I have to be okay with that. I would rather Chewie and Trent have this amazing bond and love and trust each other. Because that’s what matters most - Chewie’s happiness.

My family is a big animal family, and big on animal advocacy. Don’t be afraid to speak out against people you know who are abusing animals. I should have called animal control on my brother multiple times. Because at least it would have been documented. I know animal control couldn’t have done anything, though. On the surface, Chewie was a healthy weight and seemed fine. It wasn’t until we got him away from that situation that we realized just how much trauma he’d had to endure.

We can touch his front paws now. He’s comfortable with Trent holding him. He’s still very possessive about his toys and doesn’t really know how to play. He fetches, but always comes back, grumbling at us like, “Why did you throw it over there so I had to go get it? Not fun, dude.”

He’s a great little dog, and I’m so grateful to have him in my life. He’s happy, and that’s what matters to me most. He has the opportunity to be spoiled and live his life free from abuse. If he goes to Trent first and me second, then that’s his choice. I can’t help but resent my brother about what he did to this beautiful living soul, and, in turn, how that soul perceives me.

Selfish, I know. But like everybody I know, I just want to be loved.

Grad School and the Statement of Purpose

“But as I sat facing the three cameras that fed into 100,000 plus homes across southeast Idaho, I felt unfulfilled. Empty. This was not what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.”

While I know many authors have a blog, I hope mine will be unique in that, honestly, I’m not obsessed with books. I enjoy reading and writing, but I have many other interests. And right now, at 31 years old, my main interest is getting into a career. And I’ve chosen to apply to a graduate program at Idaho State University (Idaho and the university are both real, look it up).

I intend to get my Master’s degree in School Counseling. And part of the application is to include a Statement of Purpose.’

First of all, that title is intimidating AF. Maybe just call it a “Statement about why you want to do this and stuff, IDK lol.” That would make it much less intimidating. You mean I have to not only identify my purpose, but write it down? All… purposeful and stuff? ON purpose? (Cue me breathing into a paper bag on the kitchen floor, mini candy wrappers scattered at my feet).

However, I’ve gone through two rough drafts. Hoo boy, are they rough. However, They’re getting better with each iteration, and soon I think my application will be ready to submit.

So, for my first blog post in a long time (sorry Blogger, but we’ve been over for 10 years now. Move on.) I’m going to present this rough statement of purpose to introduce you all to me. It makes my mouth dry just thinking about sharing this with all of you — friends, family, and strangers — but I need to start somewhere if I’m going to be doing a weekly blog.

Here it is — my Statement of Purpose. I’m going to post this and go back to the kitchen floor with my bag of candy. I heart you too, mini chocolates.

---

As a published fiction author, I love telling stories, and I have yet to tell mine - until now. 

As children, we are often asked what we are going to do when we grow up. From the age of three, my answer was always the same: I wanted to be an actor, because actors made people happy. This thought of making others happy was at the center of nearly every decision I made in my search for the perfect career, though it wasn’t until years later that I realized this truth. As I continued to grow, I learned that becoming an actor like those I had seen in movies was next to impossible, and I set my sights lower. In high school, I found that I excelled in journalism classes. I decided I was going to become a television news personality like Anderson Cooper and Chris Cuomo.  Combining the two things I enjoyed would make me famous, and therefore loved by all.

As I’m sure you can see, there was a substantial error in my logic that escaped my 18-year-old brain. I enrolled at Idaho State University and earned my Bachelor’s degree in Multimedia Journalism with an emphasis in Broadcasting. I was working for the local ABC affiliate when I graduated. My absolute favorite moments were going to someone’s office, sitting down with them one-on-one, and listening to what they had to say, asking questions to get to any deeper meaning. I was unafraid to ask big questions, but as a very young man, I was terrified of the big answers it brought me.

However, my time there was overshadowed by dashed hopes and shattered expectations. I wanted to tell stories that people would like. My news director wanted to tell people the news. I finally got my chance to anchor the news during the week of Christmas. And as I sat there at the desk I’d grown up seeing on the news, facing the three cameras that fed into 100,000 plus homes across southeast Idaho, I felt unfulfilled. Empty. This was not what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.

After I left the news station, I thought I found my true calling when I lucked into a job at Century High School as their broadcasting teacher a week before school started in 2015. Being a teacher was a joyously challenging experience. I loved being in the high school setting, and specifically enjoyed checking in with the students every Monday and Friday in what I called the OSGOF, or, the “Oddly Shaped Gathering of Friendliness.” My students and I had some very frank discussions about their lives in and out of school. This kind of honesty, combined with the fact that I was working at the high school I attended, made me feel I was finally able to be myself, something I never felt able to do when I was in high school.

Yet, the times I was standing in front of the classroom were some of my least favorite. I learned I didn’t want, nor did I need an audience. I did my best work when I was able to sit down with the students individually and go over their assignments and struggles. With classes of over 30 students, however, this was made nearly impossible. Teaching felt like I was wearing someone else’s suit - while it fit me in some ways, it just wasn’t for me. I will never forget my then-fiance telling me that it sounded like I would make a good counselor, and the idea struck me like a lightning bolt.

Meanwhile, I was struggling with my own highs and lows. Stresses I had been able to manage in the past were becoming overwhelming, and I was shutting down and underperforming my duties for my students, every second in front of the classroom became more and more exhausting. This was when I first began addressing my needs as an individual, digging deeper into why I was behaving in certain ways. I began to see a counselor on my own. I also went to a general practitioner and was put on an antidepressant.

At that time, the position I had fallen into was suddenly pulled out from under me. In order to continue teaching, I had to certify in business, and I was simply not qualified to teach the subject. I received a Century blanket and a plaque wishing me well. It was hard to say goodbye to my fellow coworkers, and they stated they were also sad to see me go.

I transitioned to a job at Alameda Middle School, working with students in the Special Education program, and planned to get my teaching certification, though it still did not feel like the right fit. As I continued working individually with the students, I realized that what I enjoyed most was simply being there to help them through their struggles, however big or small. Again, counseling called my name. I did research on my own time to learn more about different kinds of students in SPED classes and how they responded to various teaching techniques. I discovered that what they most needed was encouragement, patience, and love. As it turns out, I have plenty to give.

Unfortunately, life changed, expenses increased, and I had to find a higher-paying job with more hours, forcing me to leave Alameda and the students I cared about. Since that time, I have struggled to find the right opportunity to go back to school and finally pursue the career goals closest to my heart. 

It was at this time I was misdiagnosed with bipolar disorder. I struggled to come to terms with the diagnosis, but I knew mental health issues ran in my family, including bipolar disorder. So, I began a medication regimen. And just as I fell into a clouded, muddied existence due to incorrectly prescribed medication, I began working the graveyard shift at a local hotel. I slept during the day, was awake at night, and felt life passing me by. It was at this point I reached a boiling point with my mental health. I had been existing, but that was as far as my life had gone. I was pursuing my normal interests with zero enthusiasm. Worse, whenever I took my medication, I experienced severe suicidal ideation. My provider switched me to a new medication, but with the same results. 

When I approached my provider again, he said I should give it a few more weeks to see if it would work itself out. After sharing this story with a few close friends, their advice was overwhelmingly the same: stop taking it, and find a new provider. I did, and it was with this provider that the magic happened. She dug deeper, and moved forward with the idea that my symptoms were not of bipolar disorder, but of post-traumatic stress disorder. She placed me on two different medications and a supplement of methyl folate after conducting a saliva test.

I immediately felt the difference of this new medication. After two years, I felt like I had come back to life, and with this resurrection came a passionate drive. I was 30 years old, and not doing what I wanted to do with my life. That was unacceptable. I knew I could do better. I know I can do better. My life experiences have prepared me far better to pursue a counseling career now than what I thought I wanted at 18 years old, or even at 24 years old. My successes and failures have gifted me with a new level of certainty about what I want to spend my life doing.

These struggles have all led me to this point - applying to be a school counselor. After all my experiences, it makes sense. I enjoyed working with high school students the most, I enjoyed working with individuals one-on-one, and, most importantly, I have discovered why I wanted to be an actor, and a TV news reporter, and a teacher. In my eyes, they all help people to be happy. What I want to do with my life is to help people find happiness, and combining my own journey of mental health, I can think of no other important way to do so than to help improve someone’s mental health.

Upon earning my Master’s degree, I intend to then become certified in family, couples, and marriage counseling, and would thoroughly enjoy gaining my certificate in animal-assisted therapy. I feel that this combination of perspectives will be helpful as I work with students. My goal is to help students gain tools as they head out into the world so they can better manage its many unexpected twists and turns. If I had been given the tools I now have when I was younger, it would have made an incredible difference in my decision-making and coping skills. I hope to help students see who they are and, most importantly, who they want to be, and give them the encouragement and the means to become their best selves. 

At this point in my life, I am many things. I am a husband, son, uncle, and brother. I am a front desk agent and a marketing assistant. I am also a published fiction author, a playwright, an actor, and a singer. And not only am I a trauma survivor, I consider myself to be thriving. I welcome the opportunity to call myself a student again, and eventually earn the title of, counselor. I feel as if the circumstances in my life seem to be matching up and guiding me toward this opportunity, this calling. I know what I want to do, I have plans, and I have the life experience to realize just how valuable an education is. Now is when I need to invest my time and energy in such opportunities. I hope to be a counselor to help people and, in turn, help my community both locally and globally.

My intention is not to impress you with my prowess as an academic or any predisposition to being a top-notch natural listener. My intention was to tell you my story. I hope this story has painted a picture of someone you want in the counseling graduate program. Someone who yearns to do better with his life and, in turn, leave life better than how he found it for others.

---

If you want to know more or have questions or comments, feel free to find me on Twitter @christafuzz89 and let me know what you’d like to hear about me next! Thanks for reading!