My Awkward Life

The clock rolled back an hour today. I woke up at 5:30 AM instead of my usual 6:30 AM and I’m pretty excited about that. I’ll try to remember to write about why I’ve been trying to wake up so early lately. I should probably start a list of all of the things I need to get back to. I’m pretty sure I’ve written that somewhere, so here’s where you see me starting to repeat myself.

I’ve been trying to write this blog post since 11/3/21 and I have to keep changing the days/dates in my post. I’m going to buckle down and try to get this posted today on 11/7/21. This might be a long one because I have so much to say and not enough time to go back and polish it up. (Fun fact: every time I read polish, I have to remind myself it’s “pah-lish” not “poe-lish”.) Also, I’ve just now decided that I’m not going to try to go back and polish anything up. I’m just going to post and not look back. Here’s an obligatory apology for any spelling or grammatical errors. I’ve installed Grammarly, but we’ll see how well that goes.

I wanted to go back over everything I said in my last post and elaborate, but to be honest, I’m very likely to repeat myself in a future blog post, and then eventually I’ll cover all topics out there. There were a few things I meant to get back to, but I can hardly ever focus on one thing long enough to finish it unless it’s a plate of food, apparently. I have also noticed that I have too many thoughts for the amount of time I have to sit down and collect my thoughts in written form. Ready to dive back into it and probably get distracted throughout the way? Let’s go. (I don’t know why I feel like these introductions are so amped up when they aren’t. I’m going to leave it anyway.)

11/5/21: Can WordPress get a side note feature? I have so many side notes. I just Googled if that was a possibility and it doesn’t seem like it is. So, I guess I’m just going to use these settings to do my side notes. It’s also 6:45 AM and I have to start getting ready for work soon. I tried to finish writing this on 11/3/21 to post it as a follow-up, but I just ran out of time. I’ve been thinking and I wouldn’t mind just blogging all of the time, but I have no idea how many people would actually read it. My co-worker told me she read my 11.2.21 blog post and she liked it, so naturally my first thought was to quit my job and write full-time because, I mean, hello?! I just met my first fan! No paparazzi, please. Just kidding. Actually, as soon as I got home, I spent $80 something dollars to sign up for the premium version of this website because I thought I could do some ad revenue or something. It turns out, it has to be family-friendly and I’m just…not. I also don’t want to have to censor myself because so many of my thoughts are around PG-13/Rated-R area and I wanted this to be a free area/raw emotion type of thing. There might be a joke about typing in there somewhere. I’ll also touch on my awful financial decisions here at some point too. Back to the story:

The dark hole I talked about being in was a pit that I eventually scratched my way out of. That sounds so much more eventful and powerful than it actually was. In reality, I just woke up one day and I told myself I was sick of being so sad all of the time and I figured out a way to change it. I’ll try to remember to come back to this later because it really is something that helped me and it’s something that I am constantly using in the unsolicited advice I tend to offer everyone. Is there a way to put a pin in this? Probably not.

Also, I feel like I should be using citations or something to keep up with everything like a research paper or something. That sounds so much more boring than I intended, but I actually just found out how to do it. BRB, going to get fancy up in this bitch. Actually, that’s too much work for right now. Sorry. I’m still trying to learn how all of this works right now so there will be a lot of trial and error. (I just tried to spell trial as triel but when I was just trying to write trial, I misspelled it so many times. I don’t know why I feel like people care about this.)

I would do stupid ass shit all of the time because I was self-destructive as it was and I would use others’ absence as an excuse for my poor behavior. I would use the excuse “well, so-and-so didn’t pick up the phone/answer my AIM message/comment back on MySpace (remember that shit show?), so now I’m going to do it.” I think it’s probably because I had a hard time taking responsibility for anything real. I was young and took the whole young-and-stupid thing to a whole new level sometimes. Can you smell the dirty laundry I’m about to air? Are you ready to think (and probably say out loud) “what the fuck”? Because I just wrote out my story and now I’m coming back up here to tell you I’m rethinking a lot of my life’s choices. This blog is meant to be open and brutally honest though, so here it goes:

McDonald’s & McStakes

(The McStakes is supposed to be a play on “Mistakes”… get it?)

Around this time, my mom and my two younger siblings (who had to have been around 3 and 4 at the time) were going to McDonald’s and they asked if I wanted to go. No, of course I didn’t want to go. I never wanted to do anything that involved leaving the house full of all of my darkest memories and the fuel to my depression. Like why is she asking me to leave? So I tell her no and go back up to my room. Then the little flicker of hope chimes in that lives somewhere in the back of my brain. Yes, of course I want to go with you guys and get out of this stupid cave that my grief has somehow physically manifested itself in. Go, catch them before they leave!

To get the full effect for this moment, I will answer your future question: yes, it was as dramatic as it sounds because I was all about theatrics as a kid.

Okay, back to the story. I run downstairs, open the garage, run outside, and see they’re just about to turn the corner up the road. They left me. I’m standing here in the middle of the road and my mom had the audacity to ask me to come with them and when I told her no, she actually left me. Here. Alone. Didn’t she know I didn’t really mean no? Isn’t she a mind reader? I didn’t even know I wanted to go until the option was taken from me, but she should have somehow anticipated that and made me go anyway. I can’t remember if I called her or if I’m remembering myself being so dramatic that I’m actually just imagining things at this point. If I did call her, it was probably something along the lines of:

Me: “Did you just leave?
Her: “Yes, we’ll be back in a minute.”
Me: “Can I come with you?”
Her: “I just asked you if you wanted to come with us and you said no. We already left, but we’ll be back in a minute. What do you want to eat?”
Me: *choking back tears and maybe/probably/definitely ordering this* A double cheeseburger meal with a Coke.

I can’t remember if I actually called her or if the conversation even went that way. So anyway, I go back inside because, yes, I was still standing in the middle of the road when all of this happened. I told you this was super dramatic. (Also, now I’m wondering how many times my neighbors rolled their eyes or laughed at how dramatic I was.) Here come the waterworks as I walk inside.

Side note: My parents (I often refer to my mom and step-dad Andy as my parents, just so we’re clear) used to keep their liquor above the microwave in these two cabinets. There’s also a big window above the kitchen sinks which give a very clear view of the whole kitchen.

I’ve always been too short to reach these cabinets too, so as I’m crying, I pull a chair up to the edge of the counter and I climb on top. I open the cabinets and the first thing that catches my eye is Bacardi and, mind you, I have not the slightest idea of anything related to alcohol.

I was the kid who never had detention or got in trouble at school, but I was always grounded at home. I had a problem with authority unless I was able to leave the situation and go to my own room. In school, I couldn’t leave the situation. I was stuck, so I was forced into submission by my lack of comfort.

So I grab this bottle of Bacardi and open it and take a gulp. Not just a little swig, I’m talking about-to-chug-this-bitch gulp. Why? Was I going to just get drunk because my mom left me home alone and I wanted to just feel something different? No. Was I even thinking about what happens after I chug alcohol? Absolutely not. (I feel like there should be a third question here, but I can’t think of one.) I began to chug the alcohol because I was stupid and thought: well, she left me here and she doesn’t want me touching the alcohol, so I’m going to do it behind her back even though she’s never going to know and I’m never going to tell her.

Anyway, let me set the scene again because I keep interrupting myself: I’m still standing on the chair, dried tears on my face, cabinet open, Bacardi in hand, just took a gulp. When I tell you I felt like I might be dying, I’m not even exaggerating. I had never tasted alcohol before except (maybe?) this little Coronita thing my mom let me have and I didn’t even finish it. I just took a bunch of pictures with it to seem like I was cool. I’ll try to find and attach one here.

Again, back to the story. So, here I am, dying while standing on the chair. I can’t breathe, my throat is on fire, I’m trying not to fall off of this damn chair beneath me, and I’m also worried that our neighbors are witnessing this stupid mistake I’ve just made over a fucking trip to McDonald’s. I try to compose myself and get out of this shocked state I’m in and put the bottle back exactly as I found it so I don’t cause any suspicion over what I just did out of “revenge”. I put the chair back and quietly (from embarrassment, I’m still home alone at this point) go back to my room and lay down because I don’t want my family to find my body in the kitchen. I should be in my bed, peaceful. At this point, I had no idea what would happen and I’m very obviously a worry-wart. So, I’m laying in my bed and I start getting light-headed and I hear the garage door opening. My family is home and I’m up here in my bed dying alone because I took a gulp of liquid fire and now I’m suffering the consequences in silent agony while everyone enjoys McDonald’s without me. My throat had become numb at this point which I could only assume was from the whatever-degree burns I suffered. I hear the pitter-patter of my little sister’s tiny feet running up the stairs as she runs all excitedly to get on my bed to tell me the food was “he-yuh”. (She had trouble with her R’s as a child and sometimes still gets tripped up on them when she talks too fast.) I tell her I don’t feel good and I’m just laying down which was a huge mistake because she had about 20 questions locked and loaded. I can’t remember what happened after that, but I will never forget that day because of how stupid I was over a fucking double cheeseburger.

I Don’t Know What To Name This Section

I’ve started to blog off and on for so many years because I can never remember to come back to it. I also always think that I’m going to run out of things to write about because I can only write about certain things for so long before it’s like “okay, we get it.” I’m probably going to talk a lot about my dad and his death and my depression on here. I have a lot to unpack and this seems to be a nice place to unravel and expose all of my flaws and embarrassing stories.

The biggest problem I have in my life is comparing it to others’ lives. I’m constantly comparing my progress in life to anyone and everyone around me and more times than not, I end up hurting my own feelings over it. This is really silly but there’s this song that came out years ago called “Post To Be” by Omarion Ft. Chris Brown & Jhene Aiko. I couldn’t listen to it because I felt like I was never doing what I was supposed to be doing. I was always an A/B student and didn’t miss much school. I never had perfect attendance, but I got pretty close a few times. I also never got detention/suspension in school either. After my dad died, my grades plummeted. I was now a C/D/F student and I missed school so much that I had to start getting doctor’s notes or else I would get suspended. I didn’t want to get out of bed to go anywhere, so how the hell am I going to get a doctor’s note? Do I go to the doctor and tell them my dad died and now I want to die too? No, they would immediately Baker Act me or whatever. I just never got the doctor’s note. The next time I went to school, I got called into the Guidance Counselor’s office (or maybe it was the Dean’s office? I don’t know, I can’t remember) and she told me I was getting ISS (in-school suspension) because I never got my doctor’s note. I realized that day how pointless everything was. She asked for my mom’s phone number and I gave her my phone number on accident, but I didn’t even realize it until my phone was vibrating in my pocket. I felt myself die a little bit from embarrassment and then I told her I made a mistake. She thought I was trying to pull a fast one on her, but in reality, I just was numb and found it difficult to think straight at that time. I was also still in shock that the first time I’m getting suspended is for something that was not even my fault. I didn’t even want to be at school anyway. I didn’t want to be anywhere. I just wanted the pain to go away.

Almost 3 months later to the day, my grandmother’s co-worker came to pick me up after school and told me that my Nana wasn’t doing well. I can’t remember if she had already died or not. I think she was still alive, but barely. I just remember going to get in the car and there were papers and mail everywhere and an umbrella in the seat. She had a very messy car and she was very loud and full of life. Anyway, she told me to just sit on all of the papers and I found that odd because I was taught not to sit on anything in the seat. Either move it respectfully or find another seat to sit in. The discomfort from breaking this rule was overpowering the feeling of discomfort from actually sitting on everything.

I didn’t know my Nana very well, but I remember she was very frail and her body was hunched over from scoliosis (I think). She used to have this clear box with a bunch of toys in it that she kept in the closet by the front door. She would tell me to go in the closet and pull out the toys to play with in her living room while I watched Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. She put empty prescription bottles in there for me to play with which I thought was odd and there was a Planters Mr. Peanut stuffed animal in there. I would play with the toys to make her feel better about keeping them for me even though I felt I was too old to be playing with them. I remember one day she made me some milk with Oreo cookies to dunk in it. After I was done eating my cookies, I did not want the milk because it had soggy cookie crumbs at the bottom. She made me drink it and I thought, “what an evil woman.” She was born in 1919 and had seen a lot more than I had in my 5-8 years, so yeah, drink the stupid milk.

After my Nana died, I think I went home that day and told my mom I wanted to be homeschooled, so I never ended up going to ISS. We had seen something about Florida Virtual School and decided to give that a go. It was fun at first and went really well, but then I just kind of stopped doing my schoolwork and fell behind a year.

I want to write another side note here that when I started the 8th grade, I was already presenting fully as male and calling myself Alex. I didn’t have the courage to ask anyone to change my pronouns. Towards the end of 8th grade, I ended up going to live with my grandmother, so when I started high school, I was zoned for a different school than the original one I was supposed to be at. I only knew about 3 people in the whole school and they were all in their Junior year, I think.

I didn’t miss high school. I had mentioned before about being stuck between being a boy and a girl. I had always been a tomboy, but I cut off all my hair on the last day of 7th grade. I wanted to do it before, but as I’ve mentioned, I was usually uncomfortable at school. I thought that if it all goes south, I just call my mom to come and get me, then it’s summer and I don’t have to see anyone for 2 months. Everyone was shocked, but they responded well. I tried to stay girly because I thought that’s what my family wanted, but really, I just wanted to put my clothes on that I always wore, look like a boy, and be happy. My mom spent $400 on a whole new “tomboy/surfer girl” wardrobe for me to rebrand myself with this new P!NK style/rocker hair. I loved the initiative and the thought behind all of it, but I was too scared to speak up and tell her how I really felt. I just got my hair cut off and that felt like my security blanket that often smothered me. I felt vulnerable and scared and confused and I just wanted to feel normal. I already spent my childhood feeling left out because I went to a Catholic school and didn’t buy into any of it. Plus, all of my classmates and friends had moms and dads at home and I just had a mom at home and a dad who lived in another country. This is a whole other topic I’ll have to get into later though.

I just thought about how many things I keep meaning to get back to. If anyone wants to know anything, I’ll tell you about everything. I am definitely an over-sharer. It’s a gift and a curse. So, if I mean to get back to something and I haven’t and you’re sitting there thinking “I am just dying to know about this” then let me know and I’ll get into it. Is anyone still reading this?

Anyway, so after she spent all of that money, I waited until after I had taken all of the tags off and after the return window closed to tell her I wanted to be a boy and get different clothes. Just kidding, I didn’t do it on purpose, it just happened that way. I felt awful about the whole situation because not only did she just waste all of this time and money trying to make me happy, but now I’m about to turn her world upside down, I thought. I can’t remember if this happened before or after I told her I wanted to cut my hair and hop over to another gender, but here’s my coming out story:

My mom and I were arguing about cleaning my room. She wanted me to go do it “right now” but I didn’t see the point, so I’m arguing back some nonsense about why I shouldn’t have to do it. I didn’t have the best grip on how to approach difficult topics and I also was trying to figure out a way to get out of cleaning my room. I’ll never forget it, I was standing by the dining room table between the chair and the sliding glass door and we’re hollering back and forth and I drop the bombshell:

“OH YEAH!? WELL, I’M GAY!”

She doesn’t even blink or skip a beat as she comes right back at me with the same volume, pitch, and tone:

“I DON’T CARE!
GO CLEAN YOUR ROOM!
NOW!”

I was shocked. This woman does not care about anything. I mean, I just told her I was gay, like isn’t she going to forget about everything and yell about that? I immediately shut the hell up, turned, and speed-walked/ran up to my room. I proceeded to clean like I’d never cleaned before. To be honest, I think I was on autopilot the whole time and had not even realized I had cleaned my entire room until the end. I was too busy having hypothetical conversations in my head about this whole thing.

I don’t think we ever talked about it again after that. She never cared about me being a lesbian. After I came out as transgender, she did tell me that she could deal with me being a lesbian (she even preferred it because she didn’t have to worry about me getting pregnant), but it would take a minute to come to terms with the transgender part. We didn’t use the word transgender at first because neither of us knew it even existed. I had never seen or met anyone else like me at the time and I just thought there was something wrong with my brain.

When I was 6 years old, my mom went to Jacksonville (about 30 minutes away for those of you who aren’t familiar with my location) to get a cell phone in case of emergencies. This was the mid-90s, so cell phones weren’t just glued to everyone’s hands like they are now. Having a cell phone was pretty rare back then. I went next door to hang out with my neighbor while she was gone. They always kept their garage door cracked about 5 or 6 inches for their cats to come in and out. Do you see where this is going? My friend and I were going to throw a baseball around or something and one of us dropped it (probably me). It ended up starting to roll under the door, so I tried to reach it first, but then I couldn’t get it. I brought my hand back in and tried to wiggle under the door, head first. My head got stuck and my friend pushed the button, but instead of going up, it went down. I had to go to the emergency room to get stitches and it was just awful. I was always convinced the incident might have crossed some wires in my brain somewhere. I actually wrote a story about this in 5th grade, I think. I’ll post a picture of it later.

One day, she called me down to watch this special on Oprah about two transgender teens and for the first time in a long time, I no longer felt alone. I finally had a word for how I felt. After I watched it, she asked me if that’s how I felt and I said yes and we finally had something to go on. She took me to get my hormone levels checked and everything was fine, physically. It was just that mentally, I was not in the right body. I ended up having a handful of therapists and going on depression medication.

When I went back to high school in my Junior year, there was a person on my bus named Rachel and sometimes his friends called him Ray. Sometimes they said “he” or sometimes they said “she” but I’m just going to go with “he” for the sake of this post. His friends always said he had balls, so I just figured maybe his parents made a mistake when they named him Rachel or maybe he had balls and a vagina too. I’m not sure if they meant testicles or if they just meant he was courageous. It was all unclear to me, but it wasn’t something I needed to know.

Supposed To Be

I just scrolled up and remembered what I was talking about originally. See, this is why I probably can never do videos because I’m going to forget where I am unless I have a stenographer or something.

Anyway, I have never felt like I’m doing anything I’m supposed to be doing. I ended up having two senior years and graduating in 2010 instead of 2009. I had the chance to graduate in 2009 if I had buckled down and gone to night school. I started my night classes and then met this girl who I had seen in the hallways in 9th grade. I formed my (physically) ideal girlfriend from this exact girl. She was shorter than me, had curly brown hair, a pretty athletic build, etc. I thought she was perfect. Of course, 9th grader me was just looking at the physical and never got the chance to talk to her. You can imagine my surprise when I finally met her my senior year after I had already switched schools and started dressing like Ali again. Little did I know, she was actually bisexual and we ended up dating. I lost sight of school because all I wanted to do was spend all of my time with her. It was new, exciting, and I’d much rather be hanging out with her than sitting in a cold, quiet classroom with fluorescent lighting. She lived with her sister right down the road from my mom and I basically spent every night there. I think I actually started to get off of the bus at her bus stop because I was over there so often. Long story short, I didn’t get the credits I needed to graduate on time, so I ended up repeating my senior year. Our relationship fell apart shortly after I had started skipping classes because she cheated on me like a week into our relationship and got pregnant. She told me we could think of the guy as a sperm donor and raise the baby together. Um, no thanks. So yeah, I set my whole life back a year for a stupid relationshit that didn’t even last the whole summer.

I think I might actually end this here and start a new post before this turns into a book. Be back soon!