Eleven years ago today, I left.

I didn’t have much warning I was leaving– the staff preferred to only give a week’s notice.  They didn’t want my eminent departure to give me an “exit mentality,” and it’s one of the first rules of maintaining control of another person: severely limit the information they have access to.   The staff at Provo Canyon School were very committed to control.

Provo Canyon School is a lock-down institution for “troubled teens”.  They have a website that I don’t care to link here, but you can google it if you want.  It’s also interesting to see what pops up when you add keywords like “abuse” or “lawsuit” to your search.

Sometimes you have to protect yourself (yes, this was my halloween costume a year after I left PCS)

Eleven years is a strange anniversary.  It doesn’t have the neatness of 10 years, or the “a lifetime ago” quality of 15.  Eleven is too much, and not enough. In ‘This is Spinal Tap,’ Nigel is very proud of his amps that go up to 11– it’s one louder than 10, an extra bit of power for when you need it.  I suppose eleven does feel like an extra bit of power, but it’s also slightly ridiculous, a palindromic anniversary.  I hesitate to follow that to it’s logical conclusion, because this 11 years certainly would not be the same backwards as forward.

I feel like I should have some pithy things about survival and growing into the self-actualized queer I am today.  Some people have asked me, “How do you know that PCS didn’t give you the skills you needed to grow?  How do you know that PCS isn’t the key to your survival?” It’s always hard to keep a straight face when I respond.  A PCS success story is the bland pinnacle of normal– for the girls, that meant sensible domesticity, (heterosexual) marriage, and children (in that order).

The person I’ve grown into is exactly the person that PCS tried to kill.  It was the realization that PCS wanted to kill that part of me that gave me the strength to hold on while I was there, to preserve myself deep within my skin and fight back against their poison once I was released.  They said they knew I was the enemy, and deep down, I knew that they were wrong.

Last year, on my ten year anniversary, I wrote a post to the teens that are still locked up in private facilities–or really, I wrote to the recent releases, because there’s no way anyone incarcerated in one of these institutions has access to the internet, let alone to this blog.  Remember what I said about the staff being committed to control?

From where I am now, I try to do what I can to educate people about the existence of places like PCS.  It’s always a bit chilling for me when someone responds, “I had no clue things like that still happened.”  Eleven years later, and I can still see the threads of control, and the way that the troubled teen industry limits and controls the information that the outside world can access about what goes on within their walls.

Still, for all their efforts, they can’t control those of us who survived, and they can’t stop us from speaking out.

To be honest, I’m conflicted about posting this blog. It doesn’t seem to me that I should have to say anything in a semi-public forum, but… it’s bound to come up eventually, and I’d rather forestall any rumors. Not that I think this would merit any rumors, but still. Here goes.

No more for me! (well, beyond what my body already produces, at least)

I quit testosterone about six months ago. Before the identity police come in, please note: quitting T does not make me any less trans, just like being on T did not make me any less butch. I’ve identified with both of those labels ever since I was a wee queer tadpole, and my use (or non-use) of hormones doesn’t change that.

A lot of factors went into this decision. First of all, I never intended to be a lifer with T. There were a few specific things I wanted from it– a lower voice and smaller hips were at the top of the list. I started taking T to further queer my gender presentation– not to normalize it. Once it got to the point that I was being read as a man in just about all contexts– and not even necessarily being read as trans in queer contexts– I knew it was time to stop. I’m butch, and I’m trans, but I’m certainly not a man.

My testosterone use was always conflicted. My first solo show, XY(T), wrestled with it, and reached a point of vague comfort by the end of the performance. I’m not sure how different that piece would look if I performed it now. I would probably have to add an epilogue. Someone should book the show, and we can find out what happens.

I’ll admit it– and I want to be clear here, I am just speaking for my own experience, and not making prescriptive statements for anyone else– it feels great. Since I quit, I have felt more energetic, more confident, more present in my own body. This may be a coincidence, and it may be psychosomatic. I’m reluctant to declare this as a causal relationship, however compelling the evidence seems to me. This does not mean that I regret the 6 years that I used the hormone– it was right for me then, and it isn’t right for me now.

I don’t think of this as “detransitioning.” There are a couple of reasons for that. First of all, I’ve always chafed under the “transitioning” terminology– I was not “pre-transition” before I started taking T, I was not “mid-transition” while I was on it, and I never envisioned myself arriving at some elusive “post-transition” point. “Transition,” with its implied origin and destination, simply didn’t work for me.

What hasn’t changed is how I present myself or identify myself socially. What is changing, now, is how I’m perceived in the world. It’s strange, I don’t feel as if my appearance or mannerisms have changed at all, but already I’m getting the “sir—ma’ams” and the skeptical looks in bathrooms. And while, yes, sometimes it feels awkward or slightly unsafe, it also feels like I am being more wholly seen than I have been in years.

I’ll be teaching a workshop about testosterone– going on it, and going off it, for masculine-of-center folks– at the Butch Voices conference in Oakland in August. I’m looking forward to bringing more people into this conversation. There is lots of dialogue in transmasculine and masculine-of-center communities about going on T… but very little about going off. Hopefully, this blog, and my upcoming workshop, will create a little more space for anyone else out there who is re-examining their relationship to testosterone. Or if nothing else… maybe it will start a few good rumors.

The eels inside my hovercraft.

Do you know how to say ‘my hovercraft is full of eels’ in Dutch? I do: mijn luchtkussenboot zit vol paling. This helpful phrase was included in one of the guides I was looking at so that I could at least pretend to not be a stupid American without any knowledge of the local language when I go to the Netherlands next week. I’m not sure if I will actually need to inform anyone that my hovercraft is full of eels, but it’s good to be prepared.

I’m conflicted about the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders).  I understand the need for shared diagnostic criteria across the mental health professions, but I’m extremely critical of the pathologization and medicalization of many of the “conditions” and “disorders” that the manual describes.  In some cases, a diagnosis can allow individuals who are privileged enough to have health insurance the ability to get their mental health care covered by their insurance provider.  That is one of the main arguments I have heard in favor of retaining the diagnosis of “Gender Dysphoria” in the DSM.  In other cases, diagnoses can justify declaring a person unfit to consent or refuse treatment.  The DSM does not just name and describe “disorders.”  It also regulates the hazy border between “normal” and “abnormal,” between “sane” and “crazy.”

Currently, the DSM is undergoing a revision, with the newest version–DSM-5– to be released in May, 2013.  As part of the far-reaching revision, the American Psychiatric Association has opened the DSM-5 up for reader comments on the structure and criteria changes.  Anyone can create an account, log in, and submit comments on the proposed revisions to the criteria and structure of the manual.  In general, the text from the current manual (DSM-IV) for reference with the proposed DSM-5 descriptions and criteria. The current comment period is open until June 15, 2011.

Unfortunately, it probably won’t be too effective to just log on and leave the comment, “This is not a psychiatric disorder.  Take it out of the manual!!!”…. which is my first inclination with things like the “Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder.“  However, maybe if enough folks offer thoughtful comments, we can shift the ways that the psych industry defines and thinks about our identities, brains, and bodies.

I don’t think that it’s a coincidence that May is both Mental Health Month and National Masturbation Month. If you think about it, they’re both about taking care of yourself and your needs… and they can certainly go hand in hand (or, hand in… um. I’ll stop there).

I’m a little skeptical of some of the language around “Mental Health Month.”  I understand the importance of educational campaigns, but the reliance on the talking point that “one in four adults struggles with a treatable mental health condition” makes me a bit uncomfortable because of it’s emphasis on ‘treatment.’ I’m in favor of people seeking treatment if they personally desire it, but our current mental health industry is so focused on pathology and profit that the available “treatments” often don’t support the overall well-being of the individual seeking care. At worst, an individual may enter treatment and lose their right to consent or to leave.

As such, I am cautious about a Mental Health Month that advocates ‘treatment’ without some significant caveats.  As I see it, Mental Health Month should be more about addressing the failures of the psych industry, focusing on self-care (there’s where the connection to National Masturbation Month comes in!) and community wellness… and for that matter, we shouldn’t limit it to the month of May!

I’ve never put much store in pronouns. Trans heresy, I know. Our pronouns are supposed to be near and dear to our hearts, defended with the same fervor as our chosen names.  They can be flags, or weapons, or mirrors to reflect our deeply felt senses of self.  They don’t always fit.

Maybe it was that I was due for my monthly haircut. Maybe it was that I was wearing more tailored clothes. Whatever it was, the cashier looked right at me and called me “she.”  It didn’t feel malicious, there was no gender policing in [pronoun's] tone.  It simply seemed that [pronoun] saw me, and saw me as a person that could be called “she.”

It felt novel, and while it didn’t fit– it also didn’t chafe the way I thought it would, the way “she” did when I was a teenager trying to figure out what the hell I was and what words existed to describe me.  I realized that now– when someone calls me “she”– they’re seeing a different part of the picture.

If someone can look at me–my body, my clothes, my haircut, my mannerisms, my swagger–and fit that into their concept of ‘she,’ well, more power to them.  Ivan Coyote wrote a thoughtful and thought-provoking piece about her own reasons for choosing “she,” and parts of it resonated with me.  I’m not ready to stake a personal claim in “she,” but I’m willing to answer to it.

I can’t name the precise moment that being called ‘he’ stopped feeling like a radical gender moment and started feeling like a social default. I thought of it as shorthand–not any more accurate than ‘she,’ and easy enough to go along with when people assumed.  Now, it feels unusual when someone DOESN’T just call me ‘he.’  It’s been a long time since someone asked me for my preferred gender pronoun.  Mostly, this doesn’t bug me.  Even in our queer and gender-aware communities, people tend to call it like they see it– and really, I don’t care what someone uses for me as long as they’re respectful.  I tend to stammer when someone asks my preference, before mumbling something along the lines of “well, um, I don’t really care, ‘ze’ and ‘hir’ are great but most people just call me ‘he’ and that works too.”

I learned a few days ago that a friend that I am just getting to know  uses gender neutral pronouns for me, every time.  This touched me, more than I (in my general pronoun ambivalence) would have ever expected.  ‘Ze’ and ‘hir’ are my preference, but I rarely hear people use them.  Gender neutral pronouns are a lot of work, and they’re inconvenient.  I don’t bother to correct people when they don’t use them for me.  I just don’t care enough, and it’s so much easier to default to the binary options that we learn in grammar school.  Sometimes, I’m just tired.  Still, a pronoun that even vaguely fits can feel like a gift.  Learning that someone was using mine felt like I’d received one.

Photo by Syd London.

Yesterday, Sassafras Lowrey, Syd London, and I went on an incredible adventure.  Sassafras and I were on a mission to get new publicity photos for PoMo Freakshow, as well as getting new shots for our individual work.  For my individual shoot, we visited a deserted old asylum.

I had envisioned some sort of abandoned hospital building as the location when I was first imagining the shots, but I didn’t think it was realistic.  I thought there would be too many barriers (physical, mental, and emotional) to that sort of space.  I was absolutely thrilled when our photographer, Syd London, told me that she had found an abandoned building outside the city that we could use.

We set out mid-morning to find the building.  Figuring out the location had been a challenge– not surprisingly, Google doesn’t always have the street addresses for buildings that have been deserted for decades.  To pinpoint the location, I used a map of the county from the early 1900s, back when the building was an active asylum.  I checked the nearby cross-streets on the old map, then used those to get directions.  We left Brooklyn with our fingers crossed that my cartographical sleuthing would lead us to the abandoned building of our dreams.

We found the building exactly where the old map had promised, decrepit and dilapidated and begging to be photographed. As we approached the building, a sudden scrambling noise alerted us that we were not alone– several squirrels raced out of one window and into another, disturbed from their privacy and apparently quite displeased with the interruption.  Their scurrying and the rustling of birds nesting in the upper floors echoed throughout the rooms, making an already eerie locale feel absolutely haunted.  I was glad to be there in broad daylight.

Syd London at work. Photo by Sassafras Lowrey.

The door of the building was hanging open, and I didn’t know quite what to expect when we walked in.  We found an utterly abandoned interior, with hospital furniture haphazardly piled and overturned.  Fallen plaster, dry leaves, and other debris covered the floor.  Many of the windows were broken, as were several doors.  Some rooms were charred and burnt, suggesting a fire had once raged down the hallway.  Though my research suggested the building had only been deserted for a few decades, it felt as if it had been empty for much longer.

When I agreed to do the shoot in an abandoned hospital, I knew it would be an intense experience– 348 is all about how we abandon teenagers in the mental health system, so shooting in a former asylum felt particularly evocative.  I had not expected the decaying building to so strongly recall my own experience of being locked up.  The room for solitary confinement, the metal spring bed frames, the group showers.  As we set up the shots, I was rocketing between past and present, reminding myself that I was there on my own terms, now.

For the entire shoot, Syd London was a delight to work with.  She was extremely professional about getting the shots that we wanted, but also playful enough to keep our spirits up when the tension of the eerie location started to heavily weigh in.

Photo by Syd London.

We shot in five different rooms before we decided it was time to head back to the city, leaving the abandoned building to memory and irritated squirrels.

I’ll be posting more of the results of the shoot over the next few days, but I’ve included a few as a teaser for now.  Getting these photos was simultaneously terrifying and liberating.  I never thought that I would willingly walk back into a mental hospital…. and even though it was abandoned, I still felt like I was escaping when we left.

Last week, the PoMo Freakshow Troubled Teen Tour took me back to Portland to perform 348.  It’s sort of a full-circle story: when I was an undergrad student at Lewis & Clark College, I studied theatre and helped plan the Gender Studies Symposium.  Now, years later, I returned as an invited guest of the Symposium, to perform a new piece.  It had been long enough that the only familiar faces were professors, long enough that no one mistook me for a student as I made my way around the campus.

There was a talkback after my performance of 348, and one of the most interesting things that came up was that one audience member–an older gentleman who seemed out of place in the primarily college-aged crowd– had encountered the institution described in 348 decades ago.  He had worked as a psychiatrist for a school district, and had been sent to the facility to evaluate some students there.  He seemed overcome as he thought back, recounting the experience: “they seemed very secretive, never let me see anything other than one room for interviews.  I thought it seemed strange.  I wished there was something I could do.”

A parent with a “challenging” teenager was in the audience as well.  She had considered sending her daughter to a facility.  She announced, during the talk back, that she felt firm in her decision not to.  I was glad to know my performance had such an impact, for at least one individual.  That was the moment that the Troubled Teen Tour felt like a complete success.